


An Undeniable Impression

by Ansud



Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey, Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 190,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22642585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ansud/pseuds/Ansud
Summary: A wormhole appears in Pernese space, ending Pern's own Time of Isolation.  INCOMPLETE.
Relationships: Aral Vorkosigan/Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan, Jancis/Piemur (Dragonriders of Pern), Menolly/Robinton (Dragonriders of Pern), Menolly/Robinton/Sebell (Dragonriders of Pern), Robinton/Sebell (Dragonriders of Pern)
Comments: 557
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   * This is something of a birthday present for myself. (The writing of it, at least.) I can't promise I will finish it.
>   * The E rating is so I don't find I have to suddenly bump the rating later, should I end up writing boinking. But it starts out pretty gen.
>   * My Pern canon is better than my Vorkosigan. Way, waaaayyy better.
>   * My EARLY 9th Pass Pern canon is better than my LATE 9th Pass Pern canon. Alas, this fic is set during late Pern canon.
>   * Tru Fact: In Pern canon, Emily Boll was governor of Tau Ceti. Hmmm.
> 


* * *

**Chapter One**

“And what,” Robinton breathed, “Will happen if it fails?”

“We’ll die,” the AIVAS said. “Both of us.”

#

The music was discordant, out of tune, off-beat. He twitched his fingers, trying to raise a hand so he could _conduct_ , get his orchestra under control.

“He’s moving!” a familiar voice said, frightfully strained. “Get the Healer!”

_Robinton?_ another voice said faintly. Then it was lost beyond the cacophony of disordered instrumentation. Disordered instruments.

His fingers twitched again as he tried to put it in order once more.

#

_My chest hurts_.

_I know,_ a voice replied. _I’m sorry. I had to effect a repair of the defect, otherwise this would all be for naught._ A pause. _Your heart will be artificial when all this is complete._

Despite the pain, that thought amused Robinton. 

Then he drifted off again before he could start writing a song about a Harper with an artificial heart.

#

_Ten._

_Nine._

_Eight._ A plunge into darkness and cold.

Time passed.

 _Zero_. Light returned.

As did Zair.

#

_Why me? Why not someone young and strong?_

_You’re an Impressive man, Harper_.

There was a pun there, but his head hurt too much to play with it, and he fell unconscious again.

#

_AIVAS._

_Yes, Harper?_

_…why me?_

The silence went on a long time, long enough that Robinton felt he should have fallen unconscious again. As he had been. As he always had.

Then the AIVAS said, _Because I chose you._

_Why?_

Exasperation, an emotion he’d never experienced from the AIVAS before. _I’m picky about who I share my head with. Call it Impression, if it makes our bond, or my choosing, more understandable._

#

“I wish,” an anguished voice said. “That he wouldn’t move at _all_ , sometimes. Is that bad of me? I don’t want him conducting an _invisible_ orchestra. It’s like…like watching a Smith’s machines…mechanical movement without any _soul_ behind it!”

Robinton wanted to comfort her, but he couldn’t open his eyes, much less move.

“It’d be better if he’d _died_. Easier. Easier than this.”

#

_Ten._

_Nine._

_WAIT_.

_Yes, Robinton?_

_What is this?_

_Calibration. We send Zair_ between _, and I calibrate the neural implants using the data he provides._

_What about my song?_

Startled pride. Emotions the AIVAS hadn’t previously had, not like this. Robinton was rubbing off on him. _That will be critical, too, in time. I had hoped your extensive musical training would be a leg up, a benefit…and I think it will be. A way to mnemonically sort in the input. You’re getting better at it, you know. Each time we do this._

#

His chest no longer hurt. It was amazing, that _absence_ of dull pain.

_AIVAS_ , he said.

_Yes, Harper?_

_Why can’t I move?_

_I’ve immobilized you, for the most part; this work is extremely delicate, and they already jostle you enough for feeding, bathing, et cetera. I would speak through your mouth, reassure them…but somehow I don’t think it would be reassuring at all, and might get us both killed, if only out of sheer terror-ridden panic._

A pause.

AIVAS added: _They already think I killed you, then suicided. And…they’re not entirely wrong. There’s several things that are fundamentally different about us, now._ Another pause. _Luckily, I think the dragons know what we’re trying to do. I can’t speak to them directly, but sometimes you seem to translate in your sleep_. _The wavelengths are interesting. I wish I’d had more data on them before we’d begun. Not that we had time._

Robinton didn’t reply, for upon receipt of the word _sleep_ , somnolence tugged at him, and it did not take ‘no’ for an answer.

#

It was nighttime when he finally opened his eyes—something that he’d only realized had happened at all because of the moonlight streaming into his room through a wide window open to the Southern breezes.

He was at Cove Hold, in his own room. But the character of the room was very different; his usual clutter had been cleared away. The shadows were too tidy. There was an empty chair next to his bedside.

He twitched his fingers, and found he could move his arm. He felt the back of his neck, and found, under a thin layer of concealing fat, something strange and inorganic underneath, a quarter-inch or so down when he pressed with nervous fingers.

_It’s not completely done,_ AIVAS advised. _Everything deeper is, but I decided to avoid physical disfigurement until it was completely unavoidable._

Robinton wiped his face. It was slightly sticky with humidity. Then his hands went up to his hair, but all he felt was stubble. It was an alarming, alien feeling, having hair this short, shorter even than the way many dragonriders cut theirs _._ Had it been cut for ease of care?

_It fell out. Some of the changes I made in your head temporarily stressed the follicles. It will grow back…probably darker than before._

“I must sound so vain,” he said, or rather, involuntarily whispered in a raspy voice.

_Given all that has happened to you recently, it’s really quite minor a defect._

Robinton felt like AIVAS was mocking him.

_Only a little, my friend. Can you stand?_

Moving like a decade-long invalid, Robinton laboriously pushed himself upright, slid his legs out of bed, braced his feet against the cool stone floor. He was _shockingly_ thin. Not his normal gauntness, but nearly skeletal.

Had they been _feeding_ him? Or had… _someone_ …decided that maybe death was better than…whatever they thought he’d had?

_They’ve fed you. But my work was intensive. They upped your intake about a seven-day ago—but that allowed me to do more, faster, so it’s had minimal outward effect. I’m sorry. You’ll begin to gain weight, now that I’m at a stalling point. However, your metabolism will be higher now, and you’ll have to eat more than you’re used to. I will remind you._

Robinton nodded to AIVAS, and then stopped, aware that to an outside perspective, he was nodding to himself.

_Like dragonriders do, yes,_ AIVAS said.

Robinton snorted. He definitely didn’t have a dragon inside his head.

_Only an AI_ , AIVAS replied.

Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself standing, bracing a hand on the bedcovers until he felt like the world wasn’t going to tilt under him. The pair of underpants around his hips immediately slid, and fell to his ankles before he could grab them. He needed a _belt_. For his _underwear_ , of all things.

Robinton had never been a glutton, but he felt the _distinct_ urge to stuff his face immediately, get himself back to normal weight. It wasn’t even hunger-pains that were driving him, but a deep fear of the thinness of his changed body.

AIVAS approved, somewhere in the back of his head. _You won’t suffer refeeding syndrome. You were being fed, after all. Eat all you want._

In the absence of owning a garter-belt, Robinton kicked off the useless undergarment, and shuffled over to the wardrobe, and found a thin tropical sleeping tunic—with a belt—within. He wrapped it around his body, and tied the belt so it wouldn’t gape and flash too much of his unseemly body at the world, then, holding onto the wall timidly, he shuffled out of his room, to the night hearth, where hopefully there would be delicious things like klah and bread and meat rolls.

He didn’t meet anyone in the hallway, or at the glow-lit hearth…not that he was ever alone, now, at this point going forward. Not with AIVAS in his head.

Off to the side, there was a tepid pot of klah, which he took to a table in the corner, and a bowl of fruit—he took the entire thing—and he found bread, butter, a small cured wherry-sausage, and a small cheese wheel. He brought those to the table too.

Then he sat, poured a cup of klah, and ate. First a bite of redfruit, then a bite of the sandwich he made. Then another bite of redfruit, and a swig of klah.

He was well into his second sandwich, and third piece of fruit, when another late-night snacker arrived at the night hearth. Lytol.

Swallowing to clear his throat, Robinton rasped, “Lytol.”

Lytol hadn’t seen him in the dim light, and whirled, a belt knife seemingly jumping into his hand from nowhere. Then he slapped the knife down on the window ledge, scrabbled for a glow-pot, then another, lighting the room as brightly as possible. “Rob? Rob!”

Robinton didn’t appreciate the harsh light on his over-thin body—that strange vanity, rearing its head up again—but smiled in a way he hoped was more comforting than ghastly. “I see I’m not the only one with late-night cravings,” he rasped. Then he tried to cough, clear his throat of some sort of mucus that had accumulated, and seemed to still be accumulating.

_I have effluvia draining into your sinus cavities, especially now that you are upright and won’t drown. It will pass in a day or so._

Mid-cough, Lytol stepped forward and engulfed him in a firm—and then frighteningly hesitant once he felt the thinness of Robinton’s shoulders—embrace. “You’re awake! You’re _you_ —“ and he pushed Robinton back again to peer worriedly at him, “—you _are_ you, right?”

Choosing not to currently elaborate on his present state or relationship with AIVAS, he took that to mean, _You’re awake and_ aware _, right?!_ “A little worse for the wear, but indeed, I am me, Lytol.” Turning his face away, he coughed again, roughly moving some phlegm on its disgusting way. He reached around Lytol to take another gulp of klah, and said, his voice clear this time, “How long have I…been ill?”

Sinking down into the other chair at the table, Lytol said, “Almost six months.”

Robinton hissed in through his teeth. _Can we afford that?_ he fretted to AIVAS.

_We couldn’t_ not _. We only ever had one chance at this._

Words began to burble out of Lytol, half a turn’s pent-up fears and worries escaping all at once. “When we found you at Landing, with the AIVAS dead, we thought—well, we didn’t know what to think. Another heart attack, maybe, although that didn’t explain the AIVAS. Then—“

Listening to Lytol’s tale with one ear, Robinton polished off his second sandwich, and his fruit, and, lacking any more bread, cut his cheese wheel into slices, and his sausage, and began to eat those plain.

The tale Lytol gave him was largely the one he’d anticipated. He’d been found unconscious in AIVAS’s room at Landing, and had been treated at Landing for a while. Once he seemed stable—if unconscious—they’d brought him _between_ to Cove Hold, where a constant parade of visitors would find it much harder to randomly appear and poke their heads in. Instead, a rotating mix of Healers and Harpers had been tending to him, keeping him fed and bathed, while the Healers largely scratched their heads over his case and mysterious affliction.

Oddly, he’d apparently been blindly conducting invisible orchestras in his sleep, or during his…vegetative awareness. The Healers had suspected he’d had some sort of stroke that left him nonverbal and minimally functional, apart from a slew of random Harper-related movements or habits.

_They weren’t wrong about your brain being affected_. _Luckily, you got better,_ the AI added drily.

“I’m doing much better now,” Robinton echoed, attempting to reassure Lytol that this moment was not anomalous, and that he wouldn’t fall back into some comatose or vegetative state when he went back to sleep. “But I think I could eat an entire wherry raw, without sauce!”

“I _observed_ them, you know,” Lytol said tightly. “Menolly would never starve you, nor Piemur, but when I saw the state you were in, how you were losing weight, I sat in, every day, and _observed_. The Healers theorized, a few months in, that you might never wake up. I didn’t believe them! And I did _not_ let them starve you!”

“My metabolism has always been ferocious,” Robinton soothed. “I do not believe I was purposefully starved, merely very ill. But I appreciate you looking out for me. Do you want some food? Klah?”

Lytol looked like he was going to refuse this largesse from a skeletal man—despite the likelihood of why he’d visited the night hearth in the first place—but Robinton rose (to Lytol’s concern) and got another plate, and then Lytol couldn’t refuse when a platter of cheese and sausage and fruit Robinton had fixed himself was shoved his way. Unlike Robinton, however, he picked at his food, instead of inhaling it. “Is this the first time you’re awake? Or were you aware, at all, before?”

“I faded in and out, sometimes,” Robinton admitted. “But I was too tired to open my eyes, much less speak.”

“You would hum tunes, sometimes. Menolly said they weren’t aimless, even though I couldn’t recognize them. She said they were by Petiron, or Domick.”

Robinton smiled a bemused smile.

_The complexity of a full orchestral score is useful_ , AIVAS said. _For regulating the data-streams._

“So I would hum, and do this?” Robinton raised a hand—

—and a _shock_ of invisible light seared his senses.

To hide what had happened, Robinton immediately clutched his shoulder, as if he’d pulled something by raising his arm. “Ah. No conducting for me anytime soon,” he said, as his vision slowly faded back in. “Nor any sort of exercise until I build up some muscle!” _What WAS that?_ he said to AIVAS.

_Eventually, you’ll need to do some work to separate your intent from the movement. In short: the neural implant tried to prepare itself to navigate a wormhole. Except we have neither a wormhole, nor a ship._

_I’ll work on that,_ Robinton promised.

AIVAS chuckled over the unlikelihood of Robinton conjuring a wormhole for them. A ship, however, was more possible. Or, rather, conjuring up the resources to _get_ to the ship AIVAS already had waiting for them.

Lytol said, “Do you need numbweed? Fellis?”

“No, no,” Robinton reassured him. “It’s not so bad, it just startled me. A man should be able to raise his arms without _that_. And I certainly don’t want fellis, I’ve already been sleep for far too long. Let whatever Healers are around have their rest. The only activity I wish to do today is eat.”

“Hmm.” Lytol picked at his plate, and fell into silence, studying him.

_Since you don’t intend to be frank with Lytol just yet,_ AIVAS said. _Whom?_

Some primitive emotions, based in yet-unexamined fears, urged Robinton to contact F’lar and Lessa, his two most stalwart allies during many, many previous crises of drastic, world-altering proportions. He could _rest_ , if the Benden Weyrleaders were in charge. But Lessa in particular would likely have a…profound disgust…when she learned about how he and AIVAS inhabited the same body now, and spoke to him like a dragon, in his head. Nor did her negative experiences with surgery predispose her to viewing his new state kindly. Especially when he’d leapt into the decision so suddenly, without warning, frightening everyone around him.

His _other_ primitive emotions longed for the company of Sebell and Menolly. Even Piemur. Someone he could _depend_ upon to back him unquestioningly. But he was loathe to put something this weighty on their shoulders. Sebell especially was already shouldering a considerable responsibility, as the new Masterharper.

And yet—he _would_ need support, given what he had to do. Someone, or several someones, to come along for the ride. The only logical route would be to draw upon his Harper resources. Everyone else—the Weyrleaders, Lytol, D’ram, shards, even the Conclave—could wait until he _knew_ …something. By going Out There, Journeying, and returning with knowledge.

Act now, beg forgiveness later.

_Yes, we’re very sorry for examining ALL our options for defeating threadfall,_ AIVAS said drily.

Shoving a slice of cheese into his maw, Robinton snorted amusement.

“Are you talking to Zair?” Lytol asked.

“Hmm?” Robinton said.

“You look as if you’re talking to someone,” Lytol, the ex-dragonrider, observed.

“I’m talking to myself,” Robinton said. “A character flaw I usually channel into music. I’ll try to be more circumspect, if it bothers you,” Robinton said with a smile he hoped looked charming and roguish. Instead of ghastly.

_Are you sure you look ghastly?_

_I’m not getting close enough to a mirror to find out,_ Robinton vowed. _I can do that tomorrow. Or the day after._ He paused, to reflect (or…not) on his blatant avoidance of a topic he feared an honest answer to. _I hope you did not expect me to be perfect_. He meant in action, or even in honor, not looks.

_I find you fascinating,_ the AI said. _Perfect is never fascinating_.

Bemused, Robinton found himself agreeing with the sentiment, for he’d always found the same to be true in, say, a song. Small imperfections—quirks, eccentricities—were what made one composer unique from another.

_People are songs, yes_ , AIVAS said. _Infinite in their variety_.

_That’s quite poetic of you._

_I’m learning from the best._

Robinton mused briefly on all the things a disembodied AI might learn once embodied. It must be as strange from his perspective as it was from Robinton’s.

AIVAS didn’t answer.

His stomach was getting uncomfortably full, so Robinton decided he would probably have to wait and let that go away before he finished his wheel of cheese. He did poke the last of the sausage into his mouth, and washed it down with klah. Then he said to Lytol, who was sitting there staring at him with large brown eyes, “I could use a bath.” His throat was gummy again, so he made a harsh sound to clear it. It wasn’t as effective as he liked.

“Not in the sea. Something will consider you fish-food. And it’s still dark out.”

Robinton sighed. “I know. I’ll use the indoor pool.”

Lytol followed him as he rose, and moved towards his destination. Robinton disliked all the hovering at his elbow—it was more servile than he was used to getting from Lytol, of all people—but felt weak enough, even after the invigorating effects of food slowly started to kick in, that he tolerated it, his ill will only apparent to himself, and AIVAS. And perhaps Zair, for the little bronze returned and landed on his shoulder. Robinton caressed his head, and neck.

At the bathing pool, Lytol began to strip himself, making it apparent he was going to get his own bathing out of the way at the same time. And, probably, stop Robinton from potentially drowning while he was at it. Again, Robinton was not usually body-shy…except currently he was, and found himself hesitating before disrobing.

_With his scarring, he can hardly say anything_ , AIVAS pointed out.

That tore it, of course. Robinton refused to do anything that might make Lytol, the man who had given so much up for Pern, with the scars of it written all over his body, self-conscious. He shook himself out of the thin sleeping-tunic, and lowered himself towards the pool.

Lytol slipped in, and reached up to give him a hand. It turned out he needed it; Robinton’s long body currently did not like the terrible exertion of crouching one bit. Lytol thinned his mouth and glanced at Robinton’s stick-like legs in dismay, but his hands were gentle, and soon the warm waters were both buoying Robinton up, and concealing everything.

Scooping a hand of sweet-sand up, he raised it, and—

_Too much,_ the AIVAS said gently.

Robinton found himself touching his shorn head again.

“It’ll grow,” Lytol gruffly advised him. “It’s already started.”

He said nothing, merely dunked himself under, and then used a much smaller pinch of sweet-sand to massage a foam through whatever was there.

They splashed, and washed, and Robinton was feeling decidedly better after it was done, a layer of sticky grime that sponge baths hadn’t been able to remove washed away. He relaxed against the side of the bath, warm water lapping at his chin, and then he said to Zair, who was paddling around, “Come here, you. Lytol, do we have any oils? He’s getting patchy.”

Lytol obligingly rose to gather a container of firelizard cream for him, before slipping back into the water.

“Thank you, old friend.”

Robinton expected Lytol to leave—sometimes even firelizards made old ghosts of memories past rattle their chains—but Lytol stayed and soaked as Robinton tended to Zair.

Zair adored the attention. He actually wasn’t patchy—someone had been tending to him—but just as clearly, he’d _missed_ Robinton, and was glad he was awake and attentive. Pleasure from the caresses reverberated through Robinton’s mind. “You poor thing,” Robinton murmured. Poor, touch-starved thing. He was generous with his attention, and kissed Zair on his little head, and on his wings, and tail. Zair didn’t seem to notice at all that he was emaciated and frail; to the little bronze, Robinton was as strong and hale as ever, and Robinton loved him for it.

Eventually, even Zair and his delighted humming couldn’t soak up another drop of oil, and Robinton leveraged himself out and applied the salve to his face, and elbows and knees, and hands.

_The back of your neck, too_ , AIVAS advised. _Once you’re completely caring for yourself on your own, in privacy, I will finish the last of my changes. You will probably want to cultivate a fashion trend of high-necked tunics._

Without comment, Robinton applied it to the back of his neck, where the sun would undoubtedly burn him without a shield of hair.

“Will you be staying up?” Lytol asked, rousting himself out of the pool when it looked like Robinton was considering getting out.

The question seemed to provoke a wave of exhaustion. “I think,” Robinton said, “That I may nap. To let the sunlight catch up to me, at least. Then I’ll be up for the day.”

Lytol accompanied him back to his room, helped him strip the bed of the current set of sheets—Robinton had no idea when last they’d been changed, and fastidiously didn’t want to rub his freshly-washed body all over them—and then moved to take the chair by his bedside. It looked frighteningly uncomfortable.

Patting the bed next to him, Robinton said, “If you’re going to lurk here, you might as well nap, too. There’s enough room.”

Lytol seemed uninclined to move.

“Suit yourself,” Robinton sighed, and burrowed under the light covers.

As sleep was just about to suck him under, the bed dipped, and then there was a warm presence at his back.

It was unexpectedly comforting, and he vanished into sleep content that he wasn’t alone.

#

“Yes, yes, Menolly,” a voice said. “He was awake, just before dawn. We ate, and bathed, and then he said he wanted to nap. That was seven or eight hours ago.” A hesitation. “I’m sure he’ll be up again. He was entirely conversant, if a tad distracted. You could see every thought across his face which—is a bit unusual, with the Harper. Unguarded. He seemed exhausted, and with him being as emaciated as he is—I can fully understand why.”

_We’ll have to work on that,_ AIVAS suggested. _I apologize for distracting you._

Robinton opened his eyes, and found, a few feet away, Menolly standing in the doorway, conversing with Lytol.

Heavens, she was beautiful. He lay there for a moment, with half-slitted eyes, and watched her vibrant personality and emotions dance across her face.

_She’s a song,_ AIVAS suggested.

_Don’t encourage me,_ Robinton retorted waspishly, and opened his eyes fully.

Beauty turned her head towards him, and made a sound, and then her mistress was turned his way, too. “Master?” she said, with a complex play of emotions, the most dominant being hope, crossing her face.

He tried to speak, found his vocal chords thick with mucus again, and turned his head away to clear his throat. Voice clear, he said, “Good morning, Menolly. Or is it past noon?” he glanced at the open windows where sunlight was now streaming through.

“Oh. Oh, oh, oh!” she said inarticulately, and rushed to his bedside, and took his closest hand in hers. “You _are_ awake!”

“So I am,” he said fondly, and covered her hand with his other one. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

She looked into his face, and laughed, delightedly, and rose up to kiss him on the forehead, and then tried to smooth back his hair with her free hand, but found only bristles. She caressed his head anyway. “It’s perhaps an hour past noon.”

“Ah, half the day wasted,” Robinton said. “Such hedonism, such debauchery, wallowing around in bed so late. You must think poorly of me.”

She laughed again, that laugh that communicated, with its overflowing delight, just how _afraid_ she’d been for him. She kissed him on the forehead again, and then kissed his hand. “You’re retired, you’re allowed the _debauchery_ of sleeping in until noon!” she assured him.

“Retired?” he said.

AIVAS chuckled in his head.

“Retired? Me? According to Lytol over there, I had about six _months_ of retirement. I’m sure I quite have all that out of my system, now.”

Menolly kissed their clasped hands again, and this time he saw the tears in her eyes.

“Now, now, don’t cry over me. I’m all right.” With a gesture, he shooed Lytol off.

Lytol went.

Menolly…wept. And Robinton pulled her as close as he could, tucked her head under his chin. “I’m all right, all right. Everything’s fine. I’m fine.”

She wept as if he’d broken her heart, and his own heart—his “artificial” heart, he supposed—ached in sympathy for the pain he’d caused her.

“I’m so sorry I left you alone,” he murmured into her hair. “It took time for me to get better.”

Clinging to him—gently, for he saw her notice his now-delicate frame—she cried more, big, heaving, messy sobs.

He stroked her hair, and kissed the top of her head.

Eventually she said into his sleeping-tunic, “I don’t know why I’m crying. I should be happy!”

“Oh, did me being up and about foul your nefarious plans?” he teased.

“No, I _am_ happy! Very! But I suppose I needed to cry, too.” She pulled away from him and wiped her eyes, and nose, and her eyes were more blue-green than usual. She looked at him and pressed her lips together, against some continuing tide of emotion, and it crooked into a misshapen smile. “I need to tell Sebell,” she said. But didn’t move to send a firelizard anywhere, as if he might vanish _between_ if she turned her back.

“Yes,” he said. “I need to talk to Sebell too. I have some plans I need to share with him. And you.”

_Especially her,_ AIVAS said.

Robinton ignored him. “However—do you think it’s possible to keep things contained? I really would like a day with you, and Sebell, before anyone else comes a-winging in.”

She frowned at him. Then she said, “We can try. Sebell will need to take a dragon here.”

“Someone discreet, then,” Robinton advised her. “How did you arrive here? Were you here last night?”

“No,” she said. “Lytol had D’ram’s Tiroth bespeak Beauty, and then showed up for me himself. I was at Landing.”

“Yes, D’ram,” Robinton said. “He’ll do. Perhaps he will be willing to quietly go get Sebell for us.” He paused, and asked AIVAS, _Piemur? Jancis?_

_Do you wish them to come with us?_

Robinton wished to speak to Menolly and Sebell, first. Piemur—and his Mastersmith wife—would be brought up if…if…

Menolly and Sebell did not reject his partnership with AIVAS out of hand.

Taking a deep breath, Robinton said, “Go ask D’ram if he’d be willing to get Sebell for me.”

“Immediately?”

Robinton was reminded that perhaps it was no longer right of him to demand Sebell show up wherever, whenever he needed him. Retirement was starting to feel appalling.

_Especially with a new heart in your chest,_ AIVAS said, smugly.

“Hmm, I suppose I have some time as I get back up to a proper weight,” Robinton temporized. “But I’d rather talk to him sooner than later.”

“Are you _planning_ something? Already?”

“My dear,” Robinton said, throwing off the covers and sitting upright. She helped him. “I’ve been _planning_ something for six months. And if it takes another three to get it going, I expect I’ll be positively gravid.” He paused. “Right, you said _planning_ , not _pregnancy_.”

Menolly laughed. “Fine. Let me go find D’ram.”

Robinton touched his inadequate sleeping-tunic. “Give me enough time to get changed,” he said, with a wink. “I’d rather not flounce about in my underwear, no matter how handsome D’ram is.”

“Oh, I love you,” Menolly said.

His artificial heart did an inartificial flip.

“I’m so glad you’re back. I’ll get him—slowly.”

“Thank you,” Robinton said, and made his way to his wardrobe.

#

An hour later, Robinton was dressed—with his collar flipped up, even though there was nothing obvious to hide yet—and he had reassured D’ram he was quite all right, and he had re-reassured Lytol of the same, and now he sat in his study, fingering an empty wineglass he didn’t dare fill. At this weight, he’d be trashed after the second sip. But that didn’t mean he didn’t _want_ to. 

Menolly was off running about putting a meal together, and D’ram was fetching Sebell discreetly.

Things were moving.

_I hope you don’t think my hesitance reflects my opinion of you,_ Robinton said to AIVAS.

_Not at all. I expected considerable trouble. You’re keen enough to foresee it as well. I will defer to your diplomatic assessment of the situation._

Robinton’s diplomatic assessment of the situation was that this plot was still a hatchling in the egg, and just about _anything_ could be the booted foot that crushed it into the sands, smearing yellow yolk and green ichor everywhere.

Finding himself parched, he raised his wineglass to his lips, only to find it empty. He chuckled a little wildly to himself, and put it back down.

Menolly reappeared before Sebell and D’ram did, with a hot pot of klah, and fresh bread and redfruit jam, and meatrolls, and the wheel of cheese that Robinton hadn’t quite demolished earlier.

Rudely, Robinton claimed the cheese and cut a thick slice, and sandwiched it between slices of bread, and began to eat even before his guests arrived. Menolly filled his cup of klah, and generously stirred a good bit of sweetening in, more than he liked, as well as a spoonful of butter, which seemed odd.

She caught his frown. “We need to fatten you up. This is better than begging you to eat chunks of raw butter.”

“Hmm,” he said, and sipped at the sweetened and buttered klah suspiciously, until he deemed it actually was palatable, if a bit oily. He shrugged, took a bigger gulp, and returned to his meal.

He’d successfully demolished the remainder of the cheese wheel when Sebell and D’ram arrived in a jangle of buckles, stomping of boots, and squeaking of wherhide. Menolly pulled both of them into Robinton’s office, and Lytol invited himself behind, and then Robinton was on his feet, being embraced by Sebell, who unashamedly kissed both his cheeks, stared deeply into his face as if seeking reassurance, and then repeated the gesture, as if in lieu of embracing him so tightly his bones snapped. Robinton noticed that, for once, Sebell was not hunching down to pretend he was shorter than his mentor.

“I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything important,” Robinton said into Sebell’s ear.

“There’s very little that’s more important than seeing you ali—awake and well.”

So, they’d thought he’d been dying. Well, it wasn’t as if there wasn’t good evidence for that conjecture. And as if Menolly’s reaction hadn’t already informed him of the same thing.

Eventually, Sebell reluctantly let him go, and moved aside so Robinton could round his desk and clasp D’ram’s hand in his own. “I appreciate you, and Tiroth, bringing my two Harpers to me.”

D’ram pursed his lips, seemed about to say something. Eventually he settled on, “Tiroth said to be patient, so I was. I hope, eventually, you’ll let me know what caused all of this.”

Robinton squeezed his hand. “Do you expect—others, to arrive? I would like a day or two to settle, to become accustomed to this new wide world of being awake and mobile.”

“Menolly mentioned—well, if they arrive, it won’t be through us. We’ll warn you if we catch someone incoming in time.”

Robinton bowed his head. “That’s all I can ask. Thank you. _Thank you_ , D’ram.”

Lytol and D’ram were astute enough to understand Robinton wanted to be alone with his two former students, and Lytol closed the door with a final look behind him as they left.

Returning to his chair, Robinton waved at the meal Menolly had provided. “Eat, both of you. I have…a lot to discuss. Plus,” and he sat back in his chair with a tired sigh—he tired _so easily_ —“I’ll feel less self-conscious stuffing my face if you two are doing the same.”

They complied.

“Tell me about the past six months,” Robinton said. “I was only semi-conscious from time to time, and the things I remember are…erratic.”

First Menolly—who had spent more time here—and then Sebell, whose duties had drawn him away, filled him in.

He’d been found unconscious at Landing, the AIVAS also unresponsive, although all the databases still remained accessible. They’d cared for him there, but he’d been minimally responsive, although he would swallow food and water if it was placed in his mouth. Eventually he was transported back to Cove, to keep him out of the public eye and to provide him with some semblance of privacy, or as much privacy as a man who could no longer wash, clothe, or feed himself was allowed.

AIVAS said, _Many of the changes I made effected your neurology. I wouldn’t have been able to keep you aware and mobile without the side-effects of my in-process changes appearing to be much more frightening, and much worse. It would have been less pleasant for you, as well._

One thing Robinton noticed neither mentioned were his hand-movements during that time he’d been unconscious. Sitting back in his chair, he pulled on his lip and wondered whether he should bring it up to discuss, or let it slide away, unspoken. Eventually he took a gulp of his enhanced klah, and said, “I apologize if my hand-gestures during that time frightened you. The orchestra I was conducing was…internal.”

They stared at him.

Robinton put his cup of klah down, and steepled his fingers in thought. “What I’m about to say…must not go beyond this room. Or at least not immediately.”

Menolly narrowed her eyes, Sebell looked thoughtful.

“Oh the day I…collapsed, the AIVAS mentioned something extremely important.” He paused, waited for AIVAS to interject, but true to his word, the diplomacy was left to Robinton without comment. “He told me that there was a new reading, in local Rukbat space, one he’d never expected to detect at all, precisely because Pern was selected as a colonial destination that did _not_ have such readings. He told me that there was a wormhole forming.”

They glanced at each other. Then Sebell said, “I feel like we should have Piemur and Jancis here.”

“Possibly later,” Robinton said.

Menolly asked, “What’s a wormhole?”

For a second, Robinton’s vision whited out in an explosion of calculations, and he felt his hand spasm once, twice, before it came back under control.

 _My apologies,_ AIVAS said. _There is still configuration and calibration to do. Once it’s complete, external stimuli won’t jog you into that memory-space._

Clasping his errant hand to make sure it stayed still, Robinton said, his mind’s eye still wheeling with calculations, “I won’t go into the explicit details, even Master Wansor might not understand them offhand. But it was explained to me as a sort of shortcut through space, a shortcut that connects stars to one another in a much faster route that a direct journey would normally take. A journey that might take thirty turns at sublight speeds turns into a journey of a few sevendays. Somewhat like jumping _between_ , without any _between_ involved at all.”

 _We’ll see,_ AIVAS said ambiguously.

“The AIVAS told me that he was originally an Eridani navigation computer—although very few of our esteemed ancestors knew about the Eridani part. He was originally brought along as an extra option, should any new wormholes that might shorten the journey were chanced upon by the colony ships on their long voyage out. Just because our ancestors were _prepared_ for a very long voyage didn’t mean they _wanted_ it. But, that did not happen, so upon his arrival, his stellar calculation abilities were put to the task of solving thread, among other things. Waste not, want not.”

Sebell looked fascinated. Menolly, suspicious, as she sometimes looked when he was cooking up a scheme.

Clearing his throat, Robinton took another sip of klah. His vocal chords seemed as atrophied as the rest of him; he should _not_ be this tired of speaking after so short a time. “The appearance of the wormhole changes the AIVAS’s goals, somewhat. Our options of what to do about thread potentially expand, there’s now a slim possibility we might be able to eradicate it within a generation, instead of waiting for the Pass to end. Also,” and Robinton hesitated. “The danger. Anyone, just _anyone_ , could come _out_ of that wormhole, and there’s no guarantee at all they will have our best interests at heart. Admirals Benden, Boll—they served in ancient wars a hundred times worse than Fax. We really have no idea what’s gone on out there in the millennia since.”

“What does all this have to do with your illness?” Menolly asked, with the tone of someone asking a small child what have they done. _What have you gotten yourself into?_ her stare seemed to accuse.

Robinton ducked his head. “Wormholes are navigated—amongst the Eridani at least—via a human-computer partnership. A neural interface to the ship’s computers is implanted, creating a jumpship pilot.”

Silence. Not even a firelizard fluttered a wing.

“The Eridani are cautious with their technology. They only sent one implant with the AIVAS. And he chose not to use it before now, because there were no wormholes in Pernese space, and none found along the way. Now one is forming, and will likely open within the next turn or so.”

_Less, probably. If it hasn’t opened already. We should get to Landing so I can check my instruments and recalculate._

“He chose me to be his human partner. And I agreed. Sebell, you’ve done admirably with the Hall. I am not _needed_ for that, not anymore.”

Sebell did not look enthused by this praise.

“The day it happened,” Robinton added. “I also had a new series of chest pains. Our Healers wouldn’t have found me in time, and even if they did, we don’t yet have the abilities or facilities to utilize all the ancient techniques to Heal such a thing. I know both Masters Oldive and Fanderal are trying very hard to get us there—but it will take time. The neural implant, however, was able to…ah, salvage my heart—“

_Not exactly. I was able to keep it limping along until a full replacement was grown. Your current heart is completely artificial._

Robinton ignored that as part of a later discussion. “—although as you saw, the full adoption of the fix took a considerable amount of personal resources, my pounds of flesh, and half a turn of his hard work.”

“So where _is_ AIVAS?” Menolly asked. “He’s not at Landing, he’s gone silent. How can you have a partnership if the other partner is missing?”

Robinton tapped his temple. “We’re co-inhabiting this body.”

Stares.

He grimaced suddenly. “I will say this next thing _only_ because it provides an understandable example, not because it’s what’s actually going on. Understand?” he said sternly.

They glanced at each other, and nodded.

“It’s rather like having a dragon in your head. AIVAS claims he’d been rather, er, _Impressed_ with me. I am _not_ saying he _is_ a dragon…just that the mental interplay reminds me of when I’m chatting with Zair, or when a dragon speaks to me.”

Understanding dawned. Not without a horrified twinge, although Robinton could see them both struggle to understand this strange partnership between man and computer, but they tried for _his_ sake, and their love of him.

“I beg of you—please, _please_ do not reveal to anyone else that I have AIVAS riding around in my head with me. If Abominators moved to kidnap me because of their views on AIVAS, I can’t imagine _what_ they’d desire now. Just that it won’t be good for me, or the AIVAS. Or for our chances of getting through that wormhole to see what’s on the other side.”

Menolly turned white. Sebell looked like he was chewing on a trundlebug, swallowing down something intensely unpleasant.

Robinton waited a bit, and ate some more bread, and washed it down with klah.

Then Menolly said, “So…can _we_ talk to AIVAS?”

 _There’s a speaker planted in your throat,_ AIVAS suggested diffidently.

Touching his throat, Robinton eventually found a small, hidden lump, slightly to the right of his Adam’s apple.

_However, they are certain to find me using that speaker frightening. It’s intended as a failsafe so I can communicate to Healers or other aid if you fall unconscious and can’t be roused enough to use your own vocal cords. I cannot speak into minds, like a dragon or firelizard can._

Still fingering that small lump, Robinton said, “I’m not sure you would be able to ascertain the difference between him or me speaking through my throat. Even if he affected an accent…well, I’m a Harper.” He smiled wryly. Then he paused. “Tiroth seems to be aware of some of my changes, although to what extent, or whether D’ram is open to asking him, I don’t know. Obviously, I have not explicitly told any of this to anyone but you two. I am not decided yet, if I explicitly want to tell D’ram, or let him get by on vague assurances from his bronze.”

_At Landing, I could speak from my former location, if we are near enough for my short-range radio to work._

“He says if I go to Landing, his short-range radio will allow him to utilize the speakers there. AIVAS, that is. I need to go to Landing, anyway. AIVAS wants to check his sensors to see if the wormhole has changed or opened.”

Sebell tapped his fingers on his leg, an aimless tattoo without any encoded drumbeats or meanings. “If this wormhole exists, and may be a danger to us, would it not make sense to tell the Conclave, at some point?”

“I was operating on the principle of ‘act now, then beg forgiveness’,” Robinton said with a whimsical smile. Then he became serious. “AIVAS claims he had _one_ neural implant available, and it’s been activated in me. Therefore, we have a single chance to go through the wormhole, and see what’s on the other side. Being bogged down by a committee…” Robinton shook his head. “It would be better to gather evidence and information first, and _then_ report back. Once my experiment has, er, proven its utility.”

“Or not,” Sebell pointed out. “What if you never return?”

“That can happen as easily here on Pern, as elsewhere,” Robinton said gently.

Menolly cut in, clearly desiring to get beyond the grief she’d vented a few hours ago on Robinton’s shoulder without revisiting it. “All this presupposes a _ship_.”

“Yes. We, ah, did use the engines of the ones we had for scrap, didn’t we?” Robinton said, somewhat flippantly referring to how the anti-matter engines had been detonated on the Red Star on AIVAS’s direction to shift its orbit. “AIVAS says there’s a small fast-courier ship on the Yokohama, stowed away, with wormhole-capable necklin rods. It can only be piloted by someone with the wormhole-tuned implants, which is why it was never brought to the surface by our ancestors, as none of the regular pilots had such modifications. It also lacks weapons, and thus was never converted into something capable of thread-fighting duties.”

 _Its addition to the shuttle fleet fighting the first Falls would have been negligible in immediate impact, and would have entirely prevented a scenario such as today’s,_ AIVAS said. _I chose not to release it._

“So what you need,” Sebell said eventually. “Is to discreetly board the Yokohama so you can…vanish down a wormhole. To Journey among the stars.”

“Er. In essence. Yes,” Robinton said, slightly apologetically. “Not today, however. Not until I’ve recovered my stamina.”

Sebell abruptly sighed, and covered his face with his hands, before looking up again, peering at Robinton from above his fingertips.

“Now you know how I felt, sometimes, eh?” Robinton softly teased him.

“I _never_ did _this_ to you!” Sebell insisted. “This is…is a _Piemur_ level scheming.”

“I think I’ve rather outdone him,” Robinton said smugly.

“Are you going _alone_?” Menolly asked.

“Zair will be with me,” Robinton temporized. “There would be room for more, as I understand it. I would need to be incredibly selective in who I bring.”

 _Bodyguards who can shoot,_ AIVAS suggested.

 _Shoot what?_ Robinton asked, curiously. _Those new crossbows Southern hunters have been sporting? To down felines?_

 _No. Something I’ve never released the blueprints for,_ AIVAS said.

Robinton said, rubbing his chin, “AIVAS suggests I should bring someone similar to Tuck, to watch my back. Two someones.”

“Tuck and Swift?” Menolly asked Sebell.

He nodded absently, but didn’t comment or commit those Harper resources explicitly. Robinton suspected Sebell was fighting a difficult internal battle, where loyalty to his former Master clashed with Masterharper desires to keep his people safe, which clashed with Masterharper desires to learn, grow, and teach—which were the intended consequences of Robinton’s proposed jaunt through a wormhole. What would they _learn?_

Sebell said suddenly, rising to his feet, “Do you mind if I step out? I—there a lot to think about here. I won’t, _can’t_ , give an—“

“Go on,” Robinton cut him off. “Menolly looks like she wants to give me a piece of her mind, anyhow. In private.”

One of Menolly’s eyebrows flexed, but she didn’t deny it.

Sebell touched Menolly’s shoulder, and left, shutting the door almost excessively quietly behind him.

Sebell was always quiet when he was in a temper.

Menolly leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms across her chest. Beauty’s eyes were an odd shade of yellow-orange, suggesting a mix of fear and anger. “Look at you—you’re a _walking skeleton_ and _how_ does a _walking skeleton_ cause so much trouble?!”

“I love you too,” he said gently to her.

Something unreadable flickered across her face. “You’re going _alone_.”

“Possibly,” Robinton said. “Possibly not. Tuck and Swift weren’t bad suggestions. Although they might hate me just as much as you do when they learn _where_ , exactly, their next assignment might be.” He chuckled.

Waving a long, tapered hand at the door, Menolly said, “Sebell can’t go with you. He’s running your Hall.”

“His Hall, now,” Robinton said.

“Piemur and Jancis are expecting a child.”

That was new to him. “Are they? How far along is Jancis?” It perhaps suggested something about Robinton’s relationships to his students that he thought sharing a grandchild—or great-grandchild—with Mastersmith Fanderal was a lovely development. Except for the part where he forgot he wasn’t _actually_ Piemur’s biological sire. He decided he was still thrilled, after a moment of further thought.

Menolly said, “She’s not very far. She’s still traveling _between_ when she has to, and they’re not sure if it will stick this time.”

Robinton nodded. _Between_ was not healthy for the early stages of pregnancy. Which was conductive when one couldn’t afford to have a child at the present moment, but not so much if one was hoping for one.

“So Piemur can’t go,” she concluded.

Robinton didn’t point out that for something like this, Piemur and Jancis might decide to have him go, regardless. Any child born wouldn’t hurt for parental figures with Fandarel hovering around, being grandfatherly. Not to mention Sebell, and an entire Hall of Harpers.

“So _I’m_ going with you,” Menolly declared.

 _Oh, I hope so_. But with his mouth, he said, “I thought you and Sebell were going to—“

“Start a family?” She shrugged. “We can wait a few more turns.”

Selfishly, Robinton was a little glad of that. He’d known too many women who’d died in childbirth. He wasn’t sure he could handle it happening to Menolly too, even if it meant he never got to see any tiny-Menollys running about, singing and banging on pots and pans like drums.

Or real drums, of course. He’d make as many as they wanted.

But enough of daydreaming. He said, “You don’t _have_ to decide n—“

The _look_ she shot him was decidedly unimpressed. She had _decided_ , clearly.

He struggled with a mixture of abject delight that she _would_ (come have adventures with him), and abject dismay that she _would_ (drop everything to come have adventures with him), and schooled himself to a restrained smile.

 _Your inner life is remarkably vibrant now that you’re awake,_ AIVAS commented.

Irritation entered the mix. Then he asked, _Will we have trouble with that many firelizards aboard?_

 _I suspect not._ A pause. _However, the effect of wormhole travel on them is unknown. Humans become a bit disoriented and nauseated. Firelizards, with their unique psychic abilities, may also experience trouble. I’d recommend we go on a solo trip initially, and see how Zair does, then return to pick up passengers._

Robinton took another piece of bread, spread jam on it, and then realized Menolly, not privy to his asides with AIVAS, was waiting for a reply. “I’d be delighted to have you with me for the journey, Master Menolly.”

Her glare softened. “Poor Sebell might take a bit longer to come around.”

“Ah? But he left before you announced your intentions.”

Menolly looked amused.

“He just knew, eh?”

She shrugged. “I’m the obvious choice, of the three of us. His rank is more constraining to him than he realized it would be before the Masters confirmed him. The sweet spot, he says, is being the Masterharper’s right hand, not the Masterharper himself.”

“Well, now you see why I’m off doing this,” Robinton said. “Now that I’m free.”

She sighed. Then she watched him stuffing his face again. “Do you want to go to Landing today?” She was questioning if she needed to arrange it.

He did, but he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be up to it _now_. For all his playacting at being his old self, sleep already dragged at him like a riptide. “AIVAS?” he said.

_It would be nice, but you need your strength._

“Hm.” He took another big bite, and chewed. Around it, spraying a few unfortunate crumbs that he tried to discreetly brush away, he said, “We’d prefer it, but I’m too out of shape. Perhaps in a few days.”

“What about the Weyrleaders?”

His shook his head curtly. “Not a word. Although I’m sure they’ll be here soon enough.” A plot began to form, a minor one. If he—they—were to go to Landing, AIVAS could seem to present long enough to interact with witnesses who did not know the full details of what they’d done.

_You think this should be done?_

_It would clear your name,_ Robinton said. _Which may be useful in the future. Should I, say, ever be unconscious as you posited earlier, and you need to use the thing in my throat to speak._

_Fair enough._

“Let us wait for Sebell to…settle his thoughts. I would like to know if I will have Tuck and Swift, or not. Then perhaps I will take a nap, and eat again, and then—er, will you be staying the afternoon?”

She gave him a look that questioned his intelligence.

“Perhaps…perhaps you can catch me up on all the music you’ve been making, these past few months.”

A wide array of micro-expressions flowed over her face again.

 _Also,_ AIVAS said. _I would like to calibrate sub-processes of our interface again. Zair was very cooperative last time; I hope he will be again._

“What does Zair have to do with that?” he wondered.

“Pardon?” Menolly asked.

He waved a vague hand. “AIVAS wants in on my schedule, too. It’s fine,” he said to both of them. Brushing crumbs off of his tunic, he rose. “Let’s go see what Sebell is up to.”

#

Sebell did release both Tuck and Swift to Robinton, although he asked for a few days to allow them to tie up loose ends, and so they could return to the Harper Hall where he could debrief them.

Robinton remembered to eat whenever and wherever he could, something Menolly applauded, “Because it allows me to spend my time fretting about other things!”

He spent a few pensive hours listening to Menolly play out on the porch, and when sleep overcame him, lured in by her sweet voice, he slept.

#

_Ten._

_Nine._

_This again?_ Robinton thought.

The countdown paused. _This again. I asked for time—remember?_

_Oh, I don’t begrudge you time, AIVAS. I’m just wondering what we’re doing._

_I am…calibrating a profile for_ between _-space._

_Between-space?_

_I have a theory that we may be able to simulate_ between _travel. Technologically, or with the aid of a firelizard, instead of a dragon. Or at least, gather data so we can get closer to understanding their method. With my connection to you, and your connection to Zair, I’m able to record and store data I was unable to acquire previously. It’s interesting._

_What do I need to do?_

_Just have Zair jump_ between _at my command, as he’s been doing previously._

_Oh._

_Eventually, I will ask_ you _to visualize a destination for him…but not today. The last thing I want to do is accidentally harm your firelizard._

Robinton was grateful for that.

AIVAS restarted the countdown.

_Ten._

_Nine._

_Eight_.

Cold. Black, blacker, blackest. Somehow, Robinton could still feel his body, resting, but he also felt the bone-aching cold of _between_ simultaneously. He realized that _he_ was not _between_ …but his mind was keeping an open conduit with Zair, as Zair moved _between_. Oddly, AIVAS’ countdown cut out during this time.

_Zero_. The bone-deep chill went away, and Zair landed on his chest, chittering. Robinton opened his eyes, and smiled at his friend.

#

Miraculously, they managed to keep Robinton’s changed status under wraps for ten whole days. Robinton began to feel decidedly better after the fifth day, and he decided tentatively that he looked better in the mirror, too, although his hair was still both far too short and far too dark. And on the tenth day, D’ram readily agreed to take them all to Landing.

“I don’t suppose,” Robinton said in D’ram’s ear as they mounted, “That Tiroth could inform Benden I’ll be at Landing today?”

“You haven’t sent Zair to them yet?” he asked, startled.

“I—wanted to gain a bit of weight before I saw anyone. Vain of me, I know, but Lessa would have fretted just as badly as Menolly.”

“I heard that,” Menolly said, mounting Tiroth directly behind him.

He reached back and squeezed her leg briefly.

“We’ll tell them,” D’ram said.

Robinton clasped D’ram on the shoulder. “My thanks.”

Once Lytol mounted Tiroth behind Menolly, the great bronze dragon leapt upwards, his wide wings pumping to lift them high above Cove. Once again, Robinton was struck by how beautiful the little cove he and Menolly had found on that fateful trip was. And he had a sudden burst of enthusiasm that, on this new trip, they might just find _so much more._

Then Tiroth took them _between_.

Everything _stopped_.

Robinton’s hands spasmed. In the blackness of _between_ , menus lit up his vision. His knees jerked, and then something in his cerebellum suppressed physical movement, even as the _sensation_ of his legs taking off running shivered through him.

_Necklin rods disengaged._

_Implant unsynched. Try again? Y/N_

_NO!_

The message went away for an instant, then reappeared.

_Implant unsynched. Try again? Y/N_

_Necklin rods disengaged._

_Engine off._

_Restart reactor? Y/N_

CAUTION. CAUTION. CAUTION. 

EMERGENCY ABORT WORMHOLE Y/N?

A distant, deep voice, slow, slow, _slow_ said something, as ponderous as a mountain stirring in the depths of the earth.

Barely, barely, _barely_ he felt the faintest hint of cold on his cheeks, so much more slowly than the cold of _between_ had ever hit him.

He tried to whisper every _between_ -soothing song he could remember to calm himself, but the words and notes escaped so quickly as a high-pitched whine that he ran through his entire repertoire before he even realized he started. Then he tried the Ballad of Moreta, but ran through the _entire_ score—trebles, sopranos, altos, tenors, baritones, AND bass, plus every single instrument in a full orchestra, and every alternate trimmed-down version for solo instruments—before a second passed.

His mind had a hole in it, and everything, _everything_ he knew drained down it faster than a blink.

_Robinton!_ AIVAS’s words were full of static, artifacts, and glitches, and were _slow_ like tar. _Your wormhole time-sense has activated. I’m trying to deactivate it. Don’t worry; you’re not_ really _stuck_ between _for as long as it’ll feel like._

Seconds passed. Eight _subjective_ seconds passed.

He was still in _between_.

He was going to die _between!_

AIVAS said something he couldn’t make out.

He wanted to pass out, lose consciousness, enter blessed sleep.

But something in his brain wouldn’t _let_ him.

And it was _cold_. So _cold_. Deeper and harder than ever before, and the only vision he had were the indecipherable menus against black, flicking past, screaming cautions and warnings and asking him questions he didn’t know the answers for.

He was dead. He was sure of it. This was death, falling endlessly _between._

This is what the dragonrider going _between_ forever experienced.

Then, suddenly, _daylight_. Sensory experiences all around him—warmth, sight, hearing, scent. His vision whited out again, as it had the first day when he’d raised his hands to mime conducting an orchestra, and then it cleared.

Everything around him was faster—but, still delayed. The cloth of his pants leg flapped, but in slow-motion. They almost hovered in the air as if by magic, even though Tiroth pumped his wings. They weren’t pumping fast enough, and yet they hovered, instead of plummeting.

But at least they were no longer _between_.

Even if he couldn’t move his hands or legs.

When they landed, his chin rammed painfully—for both of them, probably—into D’ram’s shoulder. Then, oddly slowly, he careened backwards, hoping against hope he wouldn’t break Menolly’s nose with his skull by accident.

Somehow, that fate was averted, but Zair fluttering around their heads alerted them to something wrong, and in an somnolescent fashion, they turned to him, _slowly_ unstrapped him, _slowly_ lowered his unresponsive, frozen body to the ground.

Something nattered at his throat. _He’s involuntarily paralyzed,_ between _triggered it, lay him down and he’ll be fine in a moment._

“Do-what-AIVAS-says—“ Menolly mouthed, and spoke, slowly.

Then the neural implant shut off, and everyone was talking and moving normally.

“—Healer,” D’ram was saying.

“No Healer!” Menolly insisted. “They can’t do anything about this. Give AIVAS a moment to fix it, like he asked”

“I don’t understand,” Lytol said. “How is the AIVAS—“

“No Healer,” Robinton burst out, supporting Menolly, and flailed his arms until he was sitting up with her help. Thankfully, as he struggled into a sitting position, they quieted.

"Of all the little Queen eggs that have ever been hatched," Robinton wheezed. He felt sea-sick, and hadn’t even been on the sea. “What happened? AIVAS. Report, please.”

The speaker in his throat said, in a tinny but recognizable voice, “Going _between_ tripped a sensor, and kicked off the paralysis subroutines and time-altered phase. I am very, very sorry Master Robinton. Until just now, I hadn’t been able to get accurate sensor readings, so I was not aware I had to make adjustments. We will do so, going forward. Your trip home will be more as you expect it to be.”

Robinton wondered about all the “calibrations” involving Zair had been for…and then just decided _not to ask_.

D’ram and Lytol stared down at him.

Lytol said, looking pained. “You’ve kept us all in the dark about something important, haven’t you?”

D’ram glanced at Menolly, correctly deducing that _one_ of them had been aware. 

Menolly ignored him.

“Help me up,” Robinton said. “And then we’ll go to the AIVAS room, and…I’ll explain.”

#

A few students were using the terminals in the AIVAS room, but the combined Authoritative presence of Robinton, D’ram, and Lytol quickly chased them out, and they closed the door behind them for privacy.

“How are you feeling, Master Robinton?” came AIVAS’s voice from the speaker in the wall. It also echoed inside his head.

“Shaken up, stirred, poured out of my body, and poured back in,” Robinton said, collapsing in his usual chair by sheer force of habit. “But that’s neither here nor there. Since we made it after all, why don’t you check your instruments?”

_The wormhole is open,_ AIVAS informed him silently.

Robinton didn’t _say_ what he thought of that, but undoubtedly AIVAS heard it anyway. _Did anything come through it yet?_

_Not that we’ve recorded._

_How long has it been open?_

_About two months, from the timestamps we have here._

Robinton sighed.

D’ram and Lytol pulled chairs up around him. 

“We need an explanation,” D’ram said plainly, folding his arms across his chest. “Tiroth thought you were dying.”

“I thought I was dying,” Robinton said. “Thankfully, we were both wrong. But convey my deepest apologies to him; that must have been very alarming to have on his back all the way through _between_.” _Why don’t you tell them about the wormhole?_ he prompted AIVAS.

“D’ram, Lytol. Per master Robinton’s suggestion, I have just checked the sensors on Yokohama, and something I predicted might happen six months ago has occurred, roughly as of two months ago.”

As AIVAS explained what a wormhole was, Robinton studied D’ram’s and Lytol’s faces, finding the same deep concern tinged by hidden fear that he himself had felt when AIVAS had revealed it to him. Then he noticed _he_ was being watched, by Menolly.

He braced an elbow on the armrest, and set his chin on his fist, and watched her back.

Eventually her eyes lit with fond exasperation.

He reached over and gave her knee a little pat, then returned his attention to the conversation at hand.

AIVAS, at his silent okay, went on to explain what had happened with the implant, why Robinton had been ill for six months (although he tactfully neglected to say he was in Robinton’s head all the time, casting the neural linkage as a mere dumb tool, like a key to a door). He mentioned the defect in Robinton’s heart that had been repaired—although AIVAS didn’t mention the _artificial_ part—and what he theorized had happened on that jump _between_. He apologized again to D’ram and by extension to Tiroth.

When AIVAS was done, Robinton moved, catching their attention, and said, “I hope I can count on your discretion, here. If Abominators were after me before…well. Just as well nobody knows what a _neural implant_ is, eh?” He sobered. “We will eventually have to address the wormhole issue. But, I hope to have been through—and back—with more information before that goes before the Conclave.”

Lytol wiped his face with a hand, and said, “By Faranth’s tears, Robinton!”

D’ram had less to say, but his eyes had plenty of unspoken thoughts behind them.

Before Robinton could offer him half-marks for his thoughts, there was a sound beyond the door, and then it popped open, and the Benden Weyrleaders, bronzerider F’lar and Weyrwoman Lessa, entered.

“D’ram,” Lessa said, spotting him first. “Ramoth said—oh, Robinton!”

“Is that a direct quote?” Robinton asked curiously.

F’lar and Menolly laughed. D’ram and Lytol didn’t, their minds still caught up by thoughts of the wormhole.

Robinton scooted his chair around and let Lessa cross the room and enfold him in a hug. They were nearly the same height, when he stayed sitting.

“Oh, your poor hair,” Lessa said, after attempting to squeeze the air out of him. She pushed him away to peer at what seemed to be a tight, spiky cropping. It was indeed a meager offering compared to her thick, inky braid.

“At my age, I am glad that I have hair at all,” Robinton said optimistically.

“Hmm. Perhaps we could get you a barber?” she asked, fluffing a tiny bit with her fingers doubtfully.

F’lar came and rescued Robinton from his weyrmate’s beauty aspirations by putting his hands on her shoulders and pulling her backwards into him. “Did you just wake up today?” F’lar asked, loosely crossing his wrists in front of Lessa’s collarbones.

Robinton wiggled an ambiguous hand. “Few days ago. Today was the first day I felt prepared to return to Landing. But I wanted to check up on AIVAS, and take a look around.”

“Are you back too, AIVAS?” F’lar asked the screen.

Replying through the wall speaker, AIVAS said, “I’ve always been around. However, I had some heavy calculations to do that have taken my immediate attention away. But I see students have been making good use of my databases when my attention has been elsewhere. I daresay you don’t need _me_ at all, at this point. Just the information to learn from.”

F’lar frowned. “I suppose not, but your disappearance in conjunction with Robinton’s…collapse…was concerning.”

“I understand, and am sorry for the fright. I will give more notice in the future,” AIVAS said. “For example, while you have my attention currently, today, it’s likely I’ll become unavailable again in the near future.”

F’lar frowned. “Why?”

“Heavy calculations. I shut my interface here down to save resources. As you know yourselves, interacting one-on-one takes a large chunk of an individual’s attention.”

Robinton fiddled with the armrest of his chair, and wondered if AIVAS has always been this disingenuous, or if it was something he’d _learned_ from being in _his_ head.

 _Unless you want me to tell them?_ AIVAS asked.

Robinton eyed D’ram and Lytol, who still seemed unsettled. _I have enough on my plate as it is._

Lessa glanced at Robinton, frowning.

He stared back, and ran his hand over his shorn head. Perhaps he should get a hat, he mused.

She freed herself from F’lar’s loose embrace, and said, “Well, Master Robinton, it’s excellent news to see you up and about. In fact, I’m sure everyone will want to know, and see you. Perhaps you’ll come to our next Hatching? It’s one of Ramoth’s clutches,” and her face softened into a smile.

“I am still recovering, I have good days and bad ones,” Robinton said. “But if I can, I’ll be sure to come. Menolly has indicated,” and he gave her a smile, “That I was quite missed.”

“That’s a bit of an understatement,” F’lar murmured. “What happened to Harpers and hyperbole?”

“I could fling myself over his body and scream, ‘No! Don’t leave me!’?” Menolly suggested.

There was a laugh.

Robinton says, “Are you _sure_ you didn’t do that?”

Menolly normally had much better control over her flustered reactions these days, but now she turned red.

He chortled. She was going to go through a _wormhole_ with him, simply so he wouldn’t be alone. In comparison, everything else was dull and moderate.

Somehow, someway, nobody raised the topic of wormholes, neural implants, AI Impressions, or anything else in front of the Benden Weyrleaders. But Robinton did find himself taken firmly by the elbow by Lessa, and led on a short tour of Landing, so people could see he was alive, well, and still sensible and sane when he spoke.

And he and AIVAS learned the short-range radio that allowed AIVAS to speak out the wall speaker cut out at about ten dragonlengths.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robinton steals a buoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in debt to anyone and everyone who keeps the Vorkosigan and Pern fan wikis updated.
> 
> I wish they'd existed in such complete forms ten years ago!

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Robinton rubbed the back of his neck absently, then snatched his fingers away as something thin broke and leaked moisture all over his fingers, like the surface of a severe sunburn.

_What’s being built,_ AIVAS said, _is the interface you’ll use when connecting to the ship._ _It’s almost done, which is why the skin is shedding._

“Mm,” Robinton said, staring at the smear of copper across his fingertips, and rose to take care of the rather disgusting problem.

When he was in his room, tying and re-tying a decorative scarf around his neck and trying to figure out if it was possible to _wear_ such a thing without looking…well, unusual…Lytol appeared in the doorway and knocked on the jamb.

“Ah,” Robinton said. “I see my audience for this fashion-show has arrived.”

“Actually, there’s two harpers that just showed up, with D’ram, looking for you. Tuck and Swift, they say.”

“Oh? I wonder if Sebell briefed them or if I’ll have to do it myself.”

“They mentioned they’re going with you on your next trip…but seemed remarkably ignorant about where that trip was headed.”

Robinton sighed. “Sebell’s having fun with me, then. Oh well.” He turned to Lytol, flapped his hands at his upper body and head. “Does this look odd?”

“You still need to gain more weight,” Lytol remarked bluntly. “And grow more hair.”

“No, I mean—never mind.” He went to pull the stupid scarf off, but the back of his neck twinged, the fabric already stuck to it and stemming the small amount of bleeding, so he left the scarf dangling in embroidered waves, for now.

He did select another tunic from the wardrobe, a nicer one, so the scarf wasn’t so _obviously_ fancy against a plain backdrop.

“Robinton,” Lytol said, still hovering there as he dressed.

“Yes, my friend?”

“I’ve decided I’m coming with you.”

Robinton blinked. “…to debrief Tuck and Swift? You can if you want.”

“No. To space. To _beyond_.”

Robinton stared at him, and buttoned up his tunic.

“I know _languages_. I’ve been studying them. Yes, my knowledge—and AIVAS’ of them—may be two thousand turns out of date…but I’m still the only Pernese who can speak another language that isn’t simply a woodsie dialect.”

For an instant, Robinton was tempted to speak one of the thickest dialects he knew, which he could speak fluently and Lytol could not, but it would be petty, and besides, Lytol did have a point. “Very good,” he said. “Welcome to my little expedition!”

Now it was Lytol’s turn to blink, as if he’d been expecting more resistance.

A sly smile crept over Robinton’s face. “Far be it for me to get in the way of a former Dragonrider, Weaver, Lord Warder, and Landing Administrator when he decides to add another notch to his belt.”

Lytol decided to become offended. “Is that what you think this is about—?”

Tunic buttoned, Robinton approached Lytol, and took him by the elbow. “Is that what _you_ think _I_ think, my friend?” he asked, as he led Lytol out of his bedroom. Then he chuckled and patted Lytol’s back, and fancied he could feel the hackles easing under his soothing hand. “No. I value your wildly varied expertise.” Looking about, he didn’t see any sign of the two harpers Lytol claimed had arrived, so he said to Lytol, “Cover your ears.”

Obligingly, Lytol did, although with a frown.

“TUCK?” Robinton bellowed at the top of his lungs. It was a surprisingly good bellow, given his condition. “SWIFT? REPORT!” In a lesser tone, he said, “I’m done.”

Lytol uncovered his ears, and followed Robinton into his study, taking up residence on a small loveseat offset from Robinton’s desk.

It wasn’t long before Robinton heard boots in the corridor. He had just handed Lytol a glass of wine, and had poured a tiny little-finger-width for himself (he still didn’t dare drink seriously), and a more generous splash into two more glasses, when they entered his study, D’ram trailing behind.

“You bellowed?” Tuck remarked with an easy grin upon seeing him, while his junior associate Swift attempted to give Tuck a quelling look, far more intimidated by the former-Masterharper.

“Indeed I did.” Robinton added another glass, and capped the skin, before waving at the three glasses lined up across his desk. “Help yourselves, gentlemen. And sit.”

Tuck easily dropped into one of the chairs, the glass of wine held ostensibly, like a socialite, despite his rugged clothing. Swift, who was new and had dealt with Sebell much more often than Robinton, was much more restrained, and sat on the edge of the other chair with the wine, not even touching it, as if even a sip might dull his edge. Was Swift a teetotaler? Perhaps that was good, all things considered, given his own proclivities.

D’ram took the third glass, sipped it like a normal person who had no skin in this game—which he didn’t—and went to prop up a wall.

Robinton leaned back in his chair, and tasted his wine.

“Nice scarf,” Tuck commented.

“Oh, you like it? Perhaps I can kick off a new fashion trend.” Then he said, when sounds of other Cove Hold residents or visitors trickled in from outside, “Would someone mind shutting the door?”

D’ram obliged, then returned to his wall.

“Thank you, bronzerider.”

Once everyone was settled, Robinton spoke. “I am given to understand today,” Robinton said, “That Sebell has not told you why you’re here.”

Tuck said, “He said we were assigned to you ‘indefinitely’.”

Swift added, to Robinton, “You’re looking good, sir.” As if he’d had an entirely different scenario about his new assignment in his head.

“The rumors of my demise were just rumors. Although I did fall ill for…quite a while,” Robinton admitted, reflexively touching his shorn head again. He would have to stop that habit, it made him look insecure.

Tuck said, his smile fading, “I was ordered to tidy up rather thoroughly, before reporting here. We won’t be able to recover those resources.”

“Right,” Robinton said. “You too, Swift?”

The younger man nodded.

“Good. Good, _good_ , good. So the long and the short of it, gentlemen, is that the AIVAS revealed something to me, roughly six months ago, now.”

“About the time you fell ill,” Tuck observed.

“Yes, but—it wasn’t malicious, wild rumors to the contrary. What he revealed to me was that the sensors on the Yokohama were picking up the formation of a new wormhole, in the outer space of Rukbat’s solar system…”

As succinctly as he could, he summarized up what a wormhole was, and why it was direly important to the future of Pern. Then, more delicately, without mentioning AIVAS’s presence in his head, Robinton mentioned the fast-courier ship stowed away on the Yokohama, which bore necklin rods that could take it _through_ the wormhole. And revealed that he, Robinton, was the only one capable of piloting that ship, due to a device, a key that AIVAS had entrusted to him. And that he was going to take it through the wormhole, to see what was on the other side, and if the other side had other human civilizations, he’d need two good Harpers to watch his back. “Which is where you two come in.”

Tuck shot to his feet. “I _knew_ it, I knew it. If it walks, talks, and _snorts_ like a wher—“

“Really?” Robinton asked. “You genuinely imagined _this?”_ His eyes crinkled.

“I knew Masterharper Sebell wouldn’t have told me to be so _through_ if it wasn’t for a _reason_.”

“You didn’t imagine _this_ , then.”

“I _knew_ it was like the bad old days,” Tuck claimed.

“Bad?” Robinton said. “I very much hope not. But—I suppose you are correct. We _won’t_ know what we’ll find out there. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best.” Robinton drummed his fingers on his desk, a bit of a martial beat. “Will you two accompany me? I know Sebell ordered you to—but, we _are_ going on what could be a _very_ wild ride, so if you wish to bow out…I won’t hold it against you.”

_I don’t know how they could say no, when you use that tone of voice,_ AIVAS remarked.

_That’s the point,_ Robinton said, suppressing a smile.

“Over my dead body,” Tuck said. “And _then_ I’ll arrange to get my dead body on your ship as a stowaway.”

That image startled Lytol into a laugh, over in his corner.

“Good. Welcome to my little team, then. Menolly and Lytol are the other two participants, so far.”

“Menolly?” Tuck asked, startled.

“Yes, the same woman who got shipwrecked with me in that storm right before we discovered this place,” Robinton said, gesturing around him. “She’s quite handy in a pinch. I wouldn’t have survived without her.” Very literally.

Tuck shut his mouth.

“Swift?” Robinton said, studying the younger man. Swift was a pale young man with dark hair and dark eyes. Sebell wouldn’t have selected him if he didn’t trust him with Robinton’s life. But he was a bit of a cipher to Robinton. Hopefully, also to anyone else who met him, given the sorts of things the Harper Hall had him doing.

“I’m with you,” Swift said. His wine glass was still untouched in his hand.

“Good. Now, when we go through that wormhole, I’ve decided we will pretend to be Traders. Or, not so much pretend, because AIVAS informed me marks, Harper Hall or otherwise, will be less than useless to galactics. We will need to load our ship with a convincing array of trade goods, that we can sell to finance—to finance whatever it is we decide to do out there. The AIVAS tells me fine instruments are relatively illiquid on the galactic market, historically, especially where the provenance can’t be proven, as it will be difficult to prove until we chose to reveal Pern’s presence—or that choice is wrested from us.

“Tuck, Swift—you’ve both posed as salesmen from other Crafts, successfully to the Harper Hall’s bottom line, might I add, which makes you less actors than one might imagine at first blush,” Robinton grinned. “So I would like both of you to come up with a list of _small_ goods with high profit margins, so I can convene with Master Sebell and determine how much the Harper Hall is willing to finance this expedition.”

“Yes, sir,” they said.

This was the one thing Robinton regretted, not being Masterharper anymore; he no longer had direct access to an entire Crafthall of capitol. The few times he’d had to tap it—especially during Fax’s horrific reign—had allowed him to pull off capers he otherwise wouldn’t have been able to manage with Harper manpower alone. Such as manipulating markets so Fax’s militarization was delayed or slowed down by a deficit of raw materials. Robinton found himself smiling as he remembered how he’d diverted a very large shipment of iron, and had managed to get it contaminated in such a way that any blades made from it were worthless.

Lytol said, pensively, “Robinton.”

“Yes?”

Lytol cleared his throat slightly, and rubbed at one of the scars on his face, and said, “I may be able to persuade Ruatha to…finance part of this. To help lighten the burden on the Harper Hall. But Lord Jaxom will want to know _something_.”

“Lord Jaxom’s always been good at keeping secrets,” Robinton mused.

Lytol snorted.

“Yes, go ahead. Perhaps speak to Sharra, too?” Southern Hold was undoubtedly one of the richest Holds currently, even though the northern lords pretended heavily otherwise.

“Perhaps.”

Robinton turned back to the others. “Other than financing this caper, and stocking our ship with necessities, we will all need to go to Landing at some point, to be issued IDs.”

“What’s an ‘ID’, sir?” Swift asked.

“It stands for ‘identification’. AIVAS tells me the population in galactic holds is so vast that individuals are issued slips of paper or plastic with photographs of themselves, and things like their rank, age, gender, et cetera listed on them. They can’t tell their people apart, otherwise. There’s no threadfall or Hold system where everybody knows everybody. In a way…they’re all Holdless. We will need to devise a system of galactic identification for Pernese, as having _no_ papers is potentially more trouble than having obscurely foreign ones.”

“We’ll be happy to provide transportation,” D’ram said. “When would you like to do this?”

Robinton hesitated. “I believe Menolly is at Landing, with Journeyman Piemur. Would… _now?_...be too much of an imposition?”

“Now is fine,” D’ram said. “Meet us outside when you are ready.”

AIVAS suddenly threw something up in Robinton’s mind’s eye—something he hadn’t realized AIVAS could do. It was an image of earlier colonial IDs, one for Admiral Paul Benden, one was a pre-colonial ID for Emily Boll, when she was Governor of Tau Ceti. The last one was the ID of Kitti Ping, scientist. _We could adapt these three templates for Weyr, Hold, and Hall_ , AIVAS suggested. _The encryption schemes and forgery protections, especially, otherwise Pern will become the galactic destination for false papers._

_When everyone is from Pern, no one will be?_ Robinton snorted.

“Anything else you need from us, sir?” Tuck said, mistaking Robinton for being deep in thought.

“Not at the moment. At Landing we’ll adapt the original colonial ID format that the ancients used for themselves. Oh, Tuck, Swift…change into something Harperly, for your portrait, will you? Pretend you are attending a Hatching as Master and Journeyman, as the face of the Hall.”

“Will do.” They got up, and just before they left, Tuck noticed Swift’s undrunk glass, and drained it for him. Swift looked embarrassed. Robinton said nothing.

“The face of the Hall, eh?” Lytol said, looking at Robinton’s scarf.

Robinton wasn’t so much concerned about the scarf as his hair.

_I have many images of_ you _on file, Master Robinton,_ AIVAS said. _We can ensure your ID shows you with hair._

_Thank you,_ Robinton said gruffly. To Lytol, he said, “AIVAS already has images of me in his file. What I wear today doesn’t really matter.”

Lytol chuckled, then left to get ready for the trip to Landing.

#

At Landing, while Lytol, Tuck, and Swift were having their Official Colonial Identification created, Menolly found Robinton, with Piemur at her side, and jerked her head at him and gave Robinton a Significant Look.

Piemur, for one, appeared a bit wet-eyed, and Robinton realized that this was the first time that Piemur had seen him since his six months of ghastly illness.

Robinton opened his arms, and Piemur blinked, then moved in to crush him with a fierce hug. “Glad you’re back with us, sir,” Piemur said into his shoulder.

Over his head, Menolly mouthed, _He should come with us._

Robinton said, out loud, “Have you told him?”

She shook her head.

“Told me what?” Piemur asked, pulling back suspiciously.

An intrusive thought glibly cavorted through Robinton’s head and caroled, _We’re getting married!_ Which was entirely untrue, entirely inappropriate, and…all sorts of other things…but, admittedly, would provoke a rather amusing look of shock on Piemur’s face. Menolly’s too.

Though, when it came down to it, asking someone if they wanted to come on a wormhole ride was pretty absurd. Although in this case, completely true and accurate.

“Let’s go get your ID created, and I’ll tell you,” Robinton said, assuming that if Menolly had had a change of heart about Piemur’s availability to come along with them, it was for a reason. Hopefully not a sad one, but that generally was why many couples didn’t make announcements until they were certain a child had quickened.

Lytol, Tuck, and Swift were comparing small plastic cards in their hands, which glittered with rainbows and holograms. They looked up when Robinton entered with Menolly and Piemur in tow, and then returned to their comparisons.

Lytol broke off, and handed Robinton one of the cards, Menolly the other. Robinton was gratified to see that indeed, he had hair, and he also looked more filled out in the face. And of course, had no scarf around his neck. Lytol said, “Congratulations, Masterdiplomat Robinton. You’re the head of a Crafthall, again.” He paused. “Albeit a rogue one, until the Conclave recognizes you. Your Hall colors are pink, purple, and blue. Red was deemed ‘too bloody’.”

Piemur glanced at Robinton and Lytol, listening intently.

“If I’m the Masterdiplomat,” Robinton said, studying the card, which did say he was the Masterdiplomat, as well as a Master of the Harper Hall, and former Masterharper of the Harper Hall…and, oddly, of the Telgar bloodline. “Who are you, Lytol?”

“Your second.”

“Ah. And, AIVAS, why the bloodline…?” He tended not to mention that. The last thing Robinton had ever needed was anyone imagining he was plotting to take Lord Larad’s Hold away from him. Especially in the days of Fax, when Larad had been a boy and Robinton in his prime. Or the time of Thella…

“If you’re considered Pernese aristocracy, no matter how distant to the main bloodline, it may open galactic doors to you that would otherwise would stay shut.”

“Okay, what exactly have I missed?” Piemur asked Menolly. “Why are we establishing another new Crafthall? What galactic doors?”

Robinton turned to his former student, and took him aside to summarize. He was getting quite good at this whole wormhole spiel. Also, Piemur’s blue eyes bulging out was highly amusing.

But, Menolly ended up being correct that Piemur _was_ going to come with them now.

The surprise was that Master Jancis was too. Piemur insisted, listed all her (considerable) talents. And AIVAS supported it. _We may possibly need her, to help service the ship at some point._

So Piemur was sent to find his wife, Robinton repeated his explanation, and then the total number in Robinton’s crazy little scheme increased to seven.

#

Over the next few days, shipments of high-value tradable goods made their way to Cove Hold, mostly by way of D’ram…but then Lord Jaxom and Ruth showed up, Ruth more heavily burdened than Robinton had ever seen him.

“Lord Jaxom!” Robinton greeted him, rising from the chair on the porch where he and AIVAS had been running more tests under the guise of “napping”. “What a pleasant surprise!” He trotted down the steps of the front porch to meet Lord Jaxom on the beach, extending his hands as he did so.

What started as a respectful arm-clasp turned into a somewhat shy hug as Jaxom, like many others, wanted to make extra-sure that Robinton was in fine fettle. Robinton allowed the embrace and did his own surreptitious assessment, to see if, oh, any new thread-scars or other marks had showed up yet upon Jaxom’s person. Doing his own assessment, the young Lord’s eyes did flick up to Robinton’s hair, but he tactfully said nothing.

“You really have Ruth kitted up this morning,” Robinton observed.

“Oh, Lytol mentioned needing some supplies at Cove,” Jaxom said lightly. “It’s been a while since we’ve brought a little something by.”

“Well let me get you some brawn to help with all of that, if only so Ruth doesn’t sweat his tail off in this heat. Cover your ears.”

Jaxom stepped away instead, knowing full well what was going to happen.

“TUCK! SWIFT! PIEMUR! MENOLLY!” He paused, considered including Jancis simply so she wouldn’t feel left out, then decided maybe he shouldn’t order a Smith with her Mastery around as casually as he did his Harpers.

Well, Sebell’s Harpers.

But for this expedition, his too. His Diplomats.

Despite the lack of her name, Jancis came anyway, chatting with Menolly, and together everyone quickly stripped Ruth back down to his harness, carting the goods indoors, then Jaxom stripped that off too, so the white dragon could paddle and splash in the warm ocean waters.

“No, no,” Jaxom said in response to something Ruth said silently. “He didn’t really believe that could happen. It was an expression. Your tail’s fine.”

_Ruth is small enough to fit in the cargo hold of the fast-courier,_ AIVAS mused.

Robinton immediately nixed that idea with a barrage of emotions. He wasn’t taking the sitting Lord Holder of Ruatha _and_ his former Warder Lytol into deep space _at the same time._ That would undo everything they strove to do, getting Ruatha into capable hands.

_I was thinking more in the future, if we establish friendly diplomatic relations. It would be easier to demonstrate “dragons” by transporting a smaller one like Ruth, instead of a gigantic one like Ramoth._

_Maybe someday,_ a voice said wistfully.

“Maybe someday what?” Jaxom asked, puzzled.

_The AIVAS thinks I can fit in their ship_.

“…the AIVAS is in Landing,” Jaxom said. “Who told you that the AIVAS thinks—“

Robinton considered doing damage control, and then decided to simply walk away—with the AIVAS in his head—and let Jaxom puzzle over things as he bathed his dragon.

When they were inside, AIVAS said, _I must remember not to speak to you when dragons are about._

“Ruth’s special,” Robinton murmured. “He’s a bit quicker on the uptake. Or at least, more concerned with human things.”

The trade goods from Ruatha Hold were put into the storage rooms with the items from the Harper Hall, and when Robinton eventually made his way there to survey their growing hoard, he noticed some unusual items on one of the shelf. A jeweled belt-knife, a fine pair of leather boots with fancy embroidery and leather-work on the cuffs.

Spotting someone walking by, Robinton said, “D’ram?”

The former Weyrleader of Ista poked his head in.

“Where did these come from?” Ruatha’s offerings were still packed, and they hadn’t been on any list sent to Sebell.

D’ram came and stood next to him, surveying the shelf Robinton indicated. “Various places. Southern, Nerat, Crom, a little place called Lady’s Brook,” and he pointed at various finely-Crafted things.

Robinton cocked his head.

D’ram shrugged. “Tithe. I rarely use my privileges, I have everything I could possibly want. But you’re not working with Benden or any other Weyr just yet, and this endeavor of yours is potentially just as important as anything the Holds or Weyrs these places look to do.”

It went against the grain to accept these tithe goods that D’ram had blithely collected, given how many turns Robinton had spent working out the cultural clash between Oldtimer greed and modern tolerance (or rather, intolerance) of tithe. (Also, Robinton was unused to tithe coming to him, instead of flowing away.) At the same time, Robinton knew quite well that D’ram had never been an Oldtimer to abuse the tradition, and had disciplined the riders in his Weyr who’d gotten out of hand.

“If it helps,” D’ram said, understanding Robinton’s slightly dismayed expression, “I got fewer things of this quality until I put a word in their ears that it was for _you_.”

Did that make it better, or _worse_? Robinton wasn’t entirely sure. He disliked the idea that someone might short a dragonrider but not _him_. As if he were something more than a dragonrider, more worthy. That was wrong, too.

Then a delicate glass box caught his eye, and when he opened it up, it contained a matching set of masculine rings.

_“That_ one was peculiar. I’m afraid I unintentionally gave the impression that I was courting you.” D’ram chuckled, Oldtimer weyrbred man that he was, and more given to amusement at such ideas than terror.

“…is _that_ what they think we do here at Cove?” Robinton said, knowing the answer even before he spoke.

“Oh, not just in Cove. All Southerners, I suspect. But yes. There’s some speculation about what three, old unmarried men do together at night when left all alone.”

“Lytol will be horrified to learn he’s in on the fun.” Clearly, the general public didn’t realize that Robinton’s dragonrider-riding days were long, long over. With the death of F’lon, actually. And that he currently spent his time plotting about wormholes, in the most unsexy and uneuphemistic of fashions. “Who named them ‘wormholes’ anyway?” he asked rhetorically.

_John Archibald Wheeler,_ AIVAS said.

_Who?_

_An ancient Earth theoretical physicist._

Robinton automatically stored that bit of trivia back in his brain, for later use, possibly in a teaching ballad.

D’ram, aware that Robinton’s attention had strayed away from discussion about the general public’s gossip, slipped away.

_Is there anything going on between you two?_ AIVAS asked.

It was an unusually prurient question.

_Not intended to be prurient; I simply find human interactions fascinating._

Robinton said, _Nothing serious. We flirt because flirting is fun, and because it would give certain persons conniptions, which is also great fun to imagine. You know, they accuse both the Harper Hall and just about any given Weyrleader of certain propensities, but turn the most delightful shade of purple if you do_ anything _that appears to confirm it._

AIVAS was silent for a moment. Then he said, _It’s very likely, Master Robinton, that if we encounter human civilization on the other side of the wormhole, you will encounter societies where wildly different ideas of sexuality and gender are openly acknowledged and commonly accepted. You may want to discuss this with your crew._

_My crew, now, is it?_

AIVAS wasn’t diverted. He said, _Someone challenging someone else to a duel or blood-feud because they were caught off-guard and embarrassed could quickly get out of hand. I especially would like you to talk to Tuck and Swift, as we’ll be arming them._

_Arming them?_

_With stunners, yes. A device that shocks a human into unconsciousness. It’s less lethal than other weapons, but can still cause death when combined with a victim’s unknown medical conditions or age, or environmental conditions such as water or fire or other dangers a stunned person cannot move out of. I would like to ensure anyone wielding such a weapon is prepared for insults and shocks that might not actually be insults, but common everyday occurrences within another society and culture._

Robinton chewed on his lip. _Tuck can definitely control himself. I do not know Swift’s views. But I see your point. I will talk to…everyone. Perhaps when we’re on the Yokohama?_

_That would do,_ AIVAS said. _Changing subjects—I see there are some items of gold and silver and copper here._

_Yes?_

_I’d like to ask you to do something with them that you might find slightly disturbing._

Robinton waited.

_There’s still some structural work I need to do in you that hasn’t been completed, primarily because you lacked the materials in your body, and attempting to convert materials you do have in abundance to ones I need is messy and inefficient._

_Inefficient? Master Fandarel’s least-favorite word._ _What are you suggesting?_

_I would like you to break some of those unneeded items down, and eat them._

Robinton concluded AIVAS was right, that _was_ mildly disturbing. A voice in his head was asking him to eat non-edible things.

_Alternately, you could beg raw materials from a Smith, but I thought perhaps you wouldn’t want to interact with someone directly when you intend to consume the results._

_Why do you need this, again?_

_The connecting electrodes being formed on your neck should ideally be gold-plated, as that’s safer and more efficient. I already used my stores of gold for your artificial heart, so I need more. Silver and copper are also useful in trace amounts for other items._ A pause. _I could use more elemental earth, and other heavy metals, too, but I’m afraid at this point the industry of Pern isn’t advanced enough to get me pure or bio-available samples, and I’d spend more time preventing you from being poisoned than it’d be worth. If our journey through the wormhole is successful, perhaps we can buy them off-world in the correct isomers._

Robinton considered this.

AIVAS added, _Gold is completely inert in the human body; you could eat sheets of gold foil comfortably, and they are used in some culinary traditions. Silver is less safe, but I would use it before it harmed you. Same with copper._ A pause. _Don’t eat lead._

Lead had always been, culturally, a strongly forbidden material to use for anything, despite its attractive properties when it came to dyes and certain forms of metalworking. AIVAS’s databanks confirming it as a neurotoxin had comforted Robinton. It was comforting to know some of the “superstition” handed down from their ancestors was not unfounded, but based on real science, as corrupted as it’d been over the turns. Robinton chuckled. _I won’t eat lead._

But with AIVAS’s help, he did select some of the trade goods that seemed to have more worth as materials than finished items, and, er…

…went off to eat things he hoped nobody observed him eating.

#

Master Jancis, it turned out, ended up being a blessing faster than Robinton had anticipated. She had unquestioned access to intact, working spacesuits they could use on the Yokohama, and was able to find sizes that would fit all of them, in triplicate. The monumental task of moving the anti-matter engines to the Red Star being completed, nobody cared if a few spacesuits vanished, especially when it was a Master Smith taking them, presumably for some related project.

Lytol spent most of his time studying up on the languages that AIVAS said were the most common at the time of Pern’s founding. AIVAS also compiled a broad swathe of study material that covered diverse human customs, although nobody could be sure exactly what configuration they would or wouldn’t encounter any of these in.

Tuck, Swift, and Piemur, with prototype stunners that Jancis and Piemur had assembled from highly secret, restricted blueprints provided by AIVAS, went off with D’ram into the middle of the jungle to practice and test their utility on each other, and unfortunate native fauna, which it worked on erratically. Fellis proved a good counter to post-stun hangover, and was consumed liberally.

Menolly, with her Sea-Holder background, handled the logistics of obtaining food that would keep on a ship, and therefore a space ship, for long periods of time. She remarked to Robinton wryly, “I saw my mother do this all the time, but never imagined handling it myself. I never intended to marry a Captain or take another position that would have me doing it. I suppose you never know what knowledge will come in handy later on.”

Robinton continued frequent “naps” which AIVAS used to run more tests and calibrations. Robinton also continued his occasionally-odd hunts for things to ingest…usually foods with protein, to rebuild muscle, but sometimes small items containing a certain element AIVAS said he needed. 

The more he did it, however, the more Robinton found the practice intensely distasteful, and not just in taste. It was _humiliating_ , acting like he had an eating disorder when he wouldn’t ordinarily consume such things of his own free will. AIVAS soothed him by saying it was only temporary, and he wasn’t showing any genuine signs of _pica_ at all. 

In fact, AIVAS said, Robinton had been so preternaturally patient with the whole process of being attuned as a jump ship pilot that AIVAS was shocked that _this_ was the first scenario Robinton was showing considerable emotional distress over.

_Do you actually feel shock?_ Robinton deflected, although he was genuinely curious.

AIVAS said, _An unlikely event according to one’s internal calculations often “shocks” people. By that standard, yes, I’m shocked you haven’t been more irate with me before this._

Robinton chewed on that briefly, then put everything out of his head, and AIVAS was wise enough—or rather, literally attuned to Robinton’s mind—not to mention it again.

#

Per Lessa’s invitation, Robinton _did_ attend Ramoth’s next Hatching, an event that had a peculiar veneer of preemptive nostalgia over it. Would this be the last Hatching he’d see for a while? He didn’t know.

Today he’d abandoned his fancier scarves for a plain, pleated thing to hide the back of his neck discreetly. AIVAS called it a cravat, and Robinton ended up being pulled to the side during the post—Hatching feast by Masterweaver Zurg for a discussion about that “marvelous innovation” wound about his neck.

Robinton airily waved it off as a consequence of his short hair, pale skin, and the hot Southern sun, and diverted Zurg into a wide-ranging discussion about how Ancient fashions were being used in modern times. Zurg was a bit tickled that Robinton actually had an interest in fashion for once—he’d always hinted he thought Harpers and Weavers should be more closely-affiliated than other Crafts, one side making the clothes, the other showing them off spectacularly—and as Robinton listened with seeming attention, his mind wandered to the types of clothing other people wore out amongst the stars.

Maybe they all walked about naked.

AIVAS didn’t comment, but he’d gone entirely incognito in this venue swarming with dragons.

It was almost like being alone in his head again.

It was oddly lonely.

Master Domick was present at the Hatching, and offered him a turn conducting the players, but Robinton sidled out of that one, claiming he owed a few dances. Then he found himself, oddly, offering Brekke a dance. She was rarely his first pick—Robinton gravitated to chatty partners, who would fill his ears with gossip—but in a very short time he’d have little use for local gossip, so he couldn’t bring himself to care about his usual information-gathering tactics, and instead gravitated towards Brekke’s calm and soothing nature.

Brekke studied him as they danced, almost assessing, and Robinton had a vague memory that she had been one of the ones who had cared for him during that mostly-unconscious six months. Well, here he was, whole and hale. Well, mostly. He still got tired quickly, and by the time they were done with the relatively slow dance, he found himself heading towards a seat on the sidelines.

“You’re looking better,” Brekke said, a not-uncommon refrain tonight.

“I’m much better,” Robinton said, sitting. Then he gathered her hand in his and said, “And I can’t begin to express my gratitude, or how much I owe you for your time.” He squeezed her hand gently. “I’m told—“ Rather, he remembered hearing distressed words, from more than one person, “—my illness and convalescence was somewhat disturbing to behold.”

“It wasn’t so bad, as such things go,” Brekke said quietly. “I’ve seen worse.”

He supposed in a Weyr, she would.

“I was very surprised by a few aspects, however,” she added.

He blinked.

“Did you know,” she said slowly, “That you have an unusually regular pulse?”

“Do I? I admit I don’t have much experience in the matter of…listening to heartbeats. Drum beats, on the other hand—” and he raised his hand to sketch out regular 4/4 time—

And his vision whited out.

_Implant unsynched. Try again? Y/N_

_Not this bloody mess again! AIVAS! AIVAS?_

No response.

Hissing, he lowered his arms, but the beat of drums pounded in his ears, and his vision did not return.

“Master Robinton?” Brekke said beside him.

His hand twitched in that too-familiar spasm, and his knees locked jarringly, pitching him forward out of the seat. Wetness spurted against the back of his neck, oozed down beneath the cravat.

_Paralysis Override AIVAS 50 61 72 61 6c 79 73 69 73 20 4f 76 65 72 72 69 6d 61 6d 70 25_ …

Hexadecimal numbers flashed across his vision, and then his vision came back and his limbs unlocked, and he found himself kneeling on the ground, with Brekke crouching next to him, and Manora hurrying over.

“Manora, I think he’s seizing—“ Her hand was on the back of his neck. “Oh, he’s wet! What happened?” and inquisitive fingers tugged at the fabric.

In a flash he grabbed her hand and pulled it away, and then to hide his panic, and to apologize for the way he’d accidentally crushed her fingers, he loosened his grip and raised her hand to his lips to kiss it softly in a valiant gesture. While kneeling before her. Which probably looked—well, if F’nor wanted to come deck him for inappropriate interactions with his weyrmate, Robinton supposed he could. “My dear lady, I apologize most profoundly for startling you. I go into spasms sometimes when I lift my arms to a certain height—but somatic instinct is deep and occasionally I forget, and put myself in this mess!” He laughed at himself, a good old _I’m such a magnificent idiot_ chuckle.

Manora, standing over him, said, “That suggests spinal damage—“

And before Robinton could catch _her_ hand too, Manora pulled down the back of his cravat.

The expression on Manora’s face caused Brekke to jerk her hand away from him and rise to hover over him. Her cool fingers pulled down the cravat further. “What is that?”

Shoving himself back up onto the seat, Robinton untied the front of his cravat, whipped it off, refolded it, and retied it firmly _over_ the thing they were staring at. “I appreciate your concern, ladies,” he said in his gentlest tone, “But I really am just fine. That was just a blip, in comparison.”

Manora, nonplussed, said, “Tell me why I shouldn’t march Sebell over here right now.”

“You can if you want. He’s aware of the seizures.”

“It’s not the seizures we’re concerned about,” Brekke said.

“You’d have Sebell examine the back of my neck like a dirty Apprentice who hasn’t washed?” Robinton said, in a low, sardonic tone that he hoped conveyed that he was considering becoming Insulted.

Brekke jerked back slightly like he’d slapped her—she’d always been sensitive to social nuance—but then rubbed her fingers together, and to his discomfort, he saw whatever was leaking out of the back of his neck had left a slimy sheen. “This doesn’t seem to be medicated, or full of numbweed.”

AIVAS, quiet until now, whispered, _Lubricant, to protect your skin when you’re attached to a ship. Biological, I’m afraid_.

Frowning, Robinton snagged a handkerchief from his pocket, and thoroughly wiped her fingers clean, then tucked the square of fabric away. “No, it’s not. Let’s just leave parts of my body to me, for now. I’ve had quite enough of poking and prodding over the past six months, as well-intentioned and helpful as it was. I am very sorry I alarmed either one of you, but I am fine now, and would much rather put this behind me, as I have all the other somatic horrors of the past few months.” Reflexively he ran a hand over his nearly-bare head again.

“That… _thing_ …isn’t something that just gets better, Harper,” Manora said.

“Oh, it has,” Robinton assured her, rising to his feet, and dusting off his knees. “It was much worse two sevendays ago, and is coming along nicely. You should still wash your hands, mind you.” He wanted to ask them _not_ to speak to Lessa, but he figured he had a fifty-fifty chance of them not mentioning it out of a Healer privacy ethos if he said nothing, but a zero percent chance if he acted fearful about it. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Giving a little bow to both Manora and Brekke, Robinton smiled and deftly inserted himself back into the Hatching crowd.

#

Late that night, back home at Cove Hold, Robinton paced around his study with a glass of Benden wine—the first full glass he’d allowed himself since he’d woken up—and pressed AIVAS.

_I can’t have those seizures happening. I can only charmingly dissemble so much. What can we do about them?_

_It’s a matter of training, mostly. In the fast-courier, there is a simulator. Once you’ve completed training, there should be a separation between what you do with your body when not hooked up to a ship, and what happens when you are._

_Very well. We have spacesuits, and D’ram has agreed to transport us. When can we go?_

_Immediately, if D’ram agrees._

Good. Robinton tilted his glass back, and drained it. Or, started to. _Can I have this?_

_Yes. It’ll be out of your system before it matters._

Robinton finished his glass, then went to rudely drag D’ram out of his bed.

#

D’ram was confused at the late hour, but influenced by the intense and slightly manic look in Robinton’s eye, and consented to do the run right then.

In order to not to waste Tiroth’s trip, they loaded the bronze with supplies to stock the ship—Robinton mentally thanked Menolly’s diligent preparation—then donned the spacesuits, with their tanks of air. D’ram checked Robinton, and Robinton, with AIVAS’s guidance, checked D’ram.

Before he mounted Tiroth, Robinton said, _I won’t have any of_ that _happen this trip_ between _?_

_No, not this one._

Robinton hoped this was true, because he did not want to become paralyzed when floating in space.

_Floating in space_. The idea gave him chills, the good kind, which he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. Unlike D’ram, he’d never been in space before. Hopefully he would not get space-sick, which would be very, very, very unfortunate in a jump ship pilot.

_You won’t get sick, the implant compensates for space-sickness._

Ah, good. Excellent! And sensible.

And then a few minutes later, after Tiroth launched them into the sky, they did a very unsensible thing (by some people’s standards, _probably_ ), and went _between_ to the Yokohama.

Blackness.

And _none_ of the terrible artifacts or glitches of the implant.

Just clear, sweet, blackness and cold.

Which stretched out, slightly, as he’d been told to expect. Not due to his implant, but due to the distance.

Then they were floating in a large metal cavern, while creaky bluish lights flicked and flickered on. Zair had come along too, and was floating about merrily, which put Robinton’s mind at ease.

Robinton felt weightless, which was _interesting_ and not at all bad, and then he realized he felt an oddly different sort of _weightless_ too, like his mind was lighter.

Fear clenched him. _AIVAS?_ Had the ease of that _between_ trip indicated something had _happened?_

But to his relief, he got an answer. _I am here,_ AIVAS said. _I’ve offloaded some of my processes onto the Yokohama’s computers, to give your body a rest. As you’ve noticed. Your implant was never meant to take the full load of me; it was designed to be split with a ship or physical installation._

Oh. Well, that was fine, then.

D’ram detached himself from his bronze, then worked to detach their cargo from the great bronze dragon. After a moment of fumbling, Robinton got the hang of it, and helped.

They strung all the bags to a long rope they’d brought with them, and then, knowing Tiroth could only hold his breath so long, Robinton took the lead, and followed AIVAS’ instructions to a section of the colony ship that had not been explored on previous visits and expeditions.

Robinton kept expecting himself to have a panic about _something_ or other—he was in space! On one of the Dawn Sisters! The Yokohama! Shouldn’t he be _afraid?_ Eventually, when he came to his senses?—but instead found himself in a sort of euphoria of exploration, an emotion he usually only felt when deep in concentration composing a new song, the notes coming to life under his fingers without him knowing what they would be until he played them. The world seemed shiny and _new_ again, and by Faranth’s wings, he _loved_ it!

And he was glad he would be able to share it with his companions. His crew.

Particularly Menolly. He wondered what _incredible_ songs she’d write.

Perhaps he’d help her write them. A collaboration.

Shortly, they came to a heavy door. At some invisible signal from AIVAS—granted, all of AIVAS’s signals were invisible—the door groaned open, and he and D’ram maneuvered into a bay that, unlike the other, was not empty. A ship, somewhat different in design, and considerably larger than the shuttles Robinton had seen in the history files, squatted in the center of the small bay. 

It was, Robinton judged, about the size of a small cothold, perhaps two stories tall, three if the ceilings were low and dangerous to tall men like Robinton. Particularly prominent were the mysterious cylinders running the length of the ship. Necklin rods, the apparatus used to transverse wormholes.

_They look so simple,_ he mused, trying to decipher how something so simple and bland-looking could be livened up in the inevitable ballads about it.

There seemed to be no windows at all on the thing, nor was there a name emblazoned across it like the Yokohama sported. But at one end that Robinton decided was the rear was an airlock.

_There IS air in this ship, correct?_ Robinton asked.

_Yes. Before I even considered using the implant, I ran a full diagnostic. This ship is fully functional, stocked with air, water, and everything the engines need._

Bracing a hand against the side of the ship, Robinton was surprised to feel reverberation. He leaned in and touched his helmet to the surface, and a low, growly humming noise indicated that something mechanical was going on inside.

_I’m removing air from the airlock, so it’s not vented into the bay._

Robinton reflected that his knowledge of jump ships was dangerously low. Simulations of wormholes aside, it was necessary to soon plunge himself into other types of learning, as well. Ocean ships had their dangers, as his late wife had taught him, and as Menolly had later reinforced, and as he had experienced himself during their shipwreck. Spaceships, too, would have their own unique challenges.

Shortly, the two of them and their cargo were floating inside. With guidance, Robinton pulled a lever, and the door closed behind them. Then, again with guidance, he cycled the airlock. And when the indicator blinked green, they opened the inner hatch and emerged into the interior proper.

The first compartment was the cargo hold, lined with shelves, straps, and lockers. They stowed the items they had into a little corner, compactly. At AIVAS’s suggestion, D’ram gathered empty pressurized and insulated shipping containers to take back to Cove, so the next batch of cargo could be brought in without fear of depressurization or temperature fluctuations.

Robinton noticed the readings on his suit indicated the external environment had breathable air, and was comfortable in temperature. _Can I take this off?_

_Yes, Robinton, you can. In fact, you will need to, shortly. These suits were not made to be worn during wormhole navigation._

D’ram said suddenly, “Harper, does your suit radio work?”

Surprised, Robinton said, “Er, I believe so. Can you hear me?”

“I could hear that. However, you’ve been silent this whole trip. Tiroth told me you’re fine...but usually, you never shut up.”

Robinton didn’t take offense at that, but merely realized that, for some reason, he’d been talking to AIVAS with his thoughts exclusively, and not his voice. Therefore, D’ram wouldn’t have heard any of it.

“I admit, I’ve been overcome with awe, at being here, doing this,” Robinton said. “Sometimes there _truly_ are no words, not even from a Master Harper.”

D’ram was silent for a moment. “I’m having second thoughts, leaving you up here alone. If something happens, it will take time for me to suit up again and rescue you.”

“I’m not alone,” Robinton pointed out. “AIVAS is here. So is Zair—although he’s more for the company than any usefulness,” he said fondly. Zair had just flicked into the compartment from _between_ , using Robinton’s view of the place as coordinates.

D’ram’s silence said a lot.

AIVAS said, “Unlike previous times, there’s a ship that can be piloted here. It is atmosphere capable, as well as deep-space capable. The Harper will be safe; should anything go wrong, I will open the bay and he can pilot it down to the surface, if necessary.”

“Just like that?”

Robinton cut in. “I expect AIVAS will be doing most of the piloting,” he said drily. “But I also trust he can get me to safety. ‘Just like that’, with reasonable and not insurmountable caveats.”

D’ram’s posture was difficult to read through the spacesuit, but it still seemed unhappy. Finally he relented, likely due to Tiroth’s breath being limited. “Send Zair when you need me.”

“Of course.”

The new bundle of empty shipping containers following him like a string of pearls, D’ram exited into the airlock, and Robinton swung the hatch closed behind him. Then there was a rumble as D’ram, or AIVAS, cycled the airlock.

Floating in the middle of the room, Robinton cautiously undid his spacesuit, with guidance from AIVAS, and stowed it in a locker meant for such things.

“It smells sweet in here; does that mean anything?” A sort of sweet-metallic, with hints of cooking steaks.

_Some consider it the scent of space._

Robinton rolled the experience around his mind, then filed it away for later examination.

AIVAS did not say anything as Robinton floated down the corridors, opening doors and generally poking his nose into everything. Zair, enthused that his friend could “fly”, did frequent joyful loops around Robinton as he explored. When not in vacuum, wings were much more useful in freefall than limbs.

The ship had two levels. The lower, which he’d entered on, was mostly made up of passenger quarters; small rooms with bunkbeds hosting a rather intimidating set of straps, to counter drifting about in freefell he supposed, and, occasionally, a bolted-down desk with an embedded computer. Robinton counted, and there were enough beds for ten, with the two rooms near what he thought was the “front” of the ship being slightly bigger than the others. There was also one lavatory on one side, made intimidating by the various hookups for use in freefall, and in a different closet-sized room, something that was presumably a bathing room, although it was even more obscure than the lavatory.

Upstairs, there was a large multi-purpose room with a central console, with chairs and furniture bolted to the walls. Next to it was a galley, or so AIVAS explained. Robinton opened an empty coldbox that wafted frigid air at him, and closed it, then opened another box with some sort of rotating spit inside. Finally, in another cold compartment, were rations in some sort of packaging. Two _thousand_ turn old rations. “Are these edible?” he asked, unsure if he wanted to try one out of sheer curiosity’s sake or not.

_From the temperature records on that freezer, it’s never been defrosted. You can eat them._

Robinton decided to pass. For now. Perhaps in the future, if their trip was particularly tedious and long, like a months-long trip across the ocean in confined quarters, his “crew” could play an amusing game of _Truth or Eat That Thing_.

Across from the galley, it turned out there was another bedroom-cum-office, somewhat larger than the ones downstairs, with a double bed instead of bunkbeds. The Captain’s apartment, he supposed. It even had its own closet-sized lavatory and bath. Therefore, the ship could fit twelve, not ten—although it would still be a very intimate trip. Although, he supposed he could fit more people into the multi-purpose room if he _had_ to.

_For a short while,_ the AIVAS agreed. _Then the life support system will become overloaded._

After that, there was some sort of utility room. Jancis’ domain, Robinton decided. And across from that, a medical room, dominated by what looked very much like a coffin.

_Emergency coldsleep chamber,_ AIVAS said. _To suspend life until a Healer facility can be found._

Robinton reflected that there was only room for one. And that there were twelve beds for crew and passengers.

The last room on the top floor at the very nose of the ship was cluttered with seats, and screens, and was clearly the command center of the fast-courier ship. _This_ room was extremely intimidating, and he had his first moment of trepidation, his first qualm. He wasn’t even sure where to sit (much less what to do with the controls).

_Anywhere,_ AIVAS said. _All seats are wired for a jump pilot. I will key you in as the primary pilot._

“Only pilot,” Robinton said wryly.

_With access to sufficiently advanced fabrication facilities, we may be able to get you a co-pilot, eventually._

That _had_ been a worry in the back of his mind. If something happened out there, all the brave people following him into the darkness would be stranded, far from home. “Excellent,” he murmured. “Redundancy is important.”

Choosing the seat in the center, because any other would be false modesty, Robinton pulled himself towards it.

_There are antiseptic wipes in the arm,_ AIVAS directed. _Use them on the contacts in the headrest._ Robinton got the impression that this was something he would do every time he sat in a pilot’s chair.

As he followed instructions, the seat reconfigured itself to his proportions, machinery quietly humming. Then he put the used wipe in a little hole meant for garbage (suction pulled it somewhere else within the ship), and removed his cravat. Then he pushed himself down into the seat, and fastened thigh-bands around his legs, as the back of the seat made a few more small adjustments to line the pilot contacts up with the indentations on the back of his neck. Something blew a puff of air at the back of his head, making him jump, and he felt wetness again, some sort of false-biological reflex that went along with the implant.

Then he took a breath, and leaned back.

The contact inserting itself was an _exceedingly_ peculiar sensation that his mind veered from examining too closely for now.

AIVAS said, _I’ve put the ship into simulation mode, so we won’t accidentally go anywhere. Let’s begin with identifying all of these buttons, and learning what they do._

Robinton was struck by how much AIVAS’s tone resembled that of a Harper teaching the littlest child, infinitely patient and calm. He chuckled a little to himself over the contrast—this wide array of Smithing genius his own world’s Smiths couldn’t yet replicate standing in for a child’s toy counting blocks—but let himself be drawn into the soothing lesson, nonetheless.

#

The first two lessons were done in real-time, in two-hour intervals, with an hour break in between to use the lavatory, and to eat.

Then he was instructed, very firmly, to go to bed, as he’d been awake all day, and through a Hatching besides.

When he woke up, AIVAS would show him how to use the time-dilation features of his implant properly.

#

_Calculating coverage._

_Coverage complete._

_Finding entry route to RUKBAT-WH-01A._

_Route locked._

_Synching with stream…_

…c _omplete._

The frantic implant messages he’d first encountered erratically _between_ made _much_ more sense in the simulation. Particularly now he knew which order they were _supposed_ to go in…

_And_ what to do if they did not. (Abort. Very common-sense, that.)

The simulation sent the false-data of a wormhole synch, and his arms and legs were paralyzed. This opened up a pseudo-channel to control the movement of the ship, using neural routes one would usually tap for his natural limb movemen. As false visual data was streamed through his mind’s-eye, Robinton felt, very much, like he was flying. Not on the back of a dragon, but _as_ the dragon. Or perhaps as the firelizard; Zair sometimes shared flying-dreams with him, unconsciously.

It was an addicting, euphoric experience. And this was just the _training_.

_Is it bad that I enjoy this?_ Robinton asked AIVAS.

_Perhaps you were a dragon in another life,_ the AI replied. Then AIVAS added, _It’s only “bad” if it detracts from your mental acuity. From my readings, enjoyment seems to focus you. This aligns with my observance that the happier you are, the better you play._

_Define “play better”._ Robinton was genuinely curious.

_Less temporal distortion, fewer auditory distortions._

_…I’m on-beat and in-tune?_

_Precisely._

Robinton laughed.

_Your overall window of deviation, mind you, is one of the lowest among all the Harpers I’ve observed. Mood swings aside._

Robinton didn’t answer, because in the simulation, they entered the wormhole, and all of Robinton’s concentration was needed to guide his virtual ship through the stream.

A tiny slice of perceptual-time later, they got lost, shot out the side of the wormhole, and were forced into a situation where they could no longer return home in a human lifetime, and would need to go into coldsleep on the _miniscule_ chance that, if pointed in the right direction, they _might_ make it to an inhabited planet or known wormhole in a thousand years.

The single cryogenic capsule on the ship was haunting, in this light.

Robinton was disappointed in his failure, and grim about what such failure would _mean_ in reality, with a crew of seven aboard, but AIVAS said nothing.

They restarted the simulation. With Robinton’s perceptional-time stretched, each real-time second was perceived as an hour, so they could start, and end, as many simulations as needed, until Robinton’s real-time stamina wore thin, and the implant itself instigated emergency procedures and kicked him out.

#

On the 783rd run, something _clicked_ , with the patterns, the feeling, the _sound_ of the wormhole, humming to itself its own song, and he made it to the desired exit point successfully.

He successfully navigated the next seven wormhole simulations, after that. All of the resonances worked together to make the _shape_ sensible. It was the song of a cosmic string, vibrating.

Then, under the looming threat of exhaustion, he failed again, and the neural implant successfully disengaged as it was designed to (according to AIVAS), and kicked him out of the pilot’s chair, unwilling to let him pilot even a simulation until he ate some food and got some sleep.

#

201 successful simulations and one failure later, AIVAS sent him to eat and sleep again.

#

The frustrating thing about this training, Robinton reflected, was that he had no sense at all about how he was doing compared to other jump pilots. AIVAS did not regale him with tales about other students, or give him statistics of how he was doing versus the average.

In the Harper Hall, one had constant feedback. You could walk into any room, listen to your fellow Harper, and judge. And they could observe you, and judge you. You could improve yourself by learning what _not_ to do from a peer. They could learn from _you_.

_There are relatively few black-box recoveries,_ AIVAS said. _At this point, I think experiencing a recording will do you more harm than good._

#

Part-way through the third round of simulations—which put him into nothing later than early afternoon the next day, as the time-dilating effects of the implant allowed him to compress a great deal of training into a short period of actual time, and he never slept longer than three or four hours—AIVAS said, _I think you could navigate the local wormhole._

“Right now?” Robinton said in surprise.

_If we were among your ancient ancestors, you are at a point where you’d be shipped to one end of an easy wormhole, and tested. However, the only wormhole we have is this one. I judge you are ready for it. Half of the simulations we’ve done have included my readings and predictions of this one._ A pause. _I believe it is branched. You perform better on branched wormholes. Luckily, they are the most common type._

Robinton sat with Zair in his lap, and thought it over, while he stroked his little friend.

Then he realized he was manifesting a form of stage fright. _Did_ he trust AIVAS or not? If he didn’t, why had he let him put the implant in his head to begin with? AIVAS certainly didn’t want him—them—to die. Tossing him through a wormhole would be an extravagant, over-dramatic form of assassination even for Robinton’s worst enemies.

Firming his resolve, Robinton set Zair aside, despite the bronze’s protests, and leaned back into the chair’s headrest. The peculiar sensation of the chair’s contacts engaging with the external ports of his implant made the hair on his arms prickle. _Ready_.

_I am taking the ship out of training mode,_ AIVAS said.

Robinton suddenly had an intense sensation across his skin, more _tactile_ than the training simulation. He let it wash over him for a moment—he shivered thrice, and the ship shivered with him—and then he forced himself into action, and methodically went through all the pre-flight checks, just like he’d tune his instrument before a performance.

When he turned on the ship’s engines, a soothing basso rumble reverberated through everything, like the rumble of a bronze dragon before a Hatching. Then the bay doors, directed by AIVAS’s commands to the Yokohama, slid open, showing Robinton, in his mind’s eye through the neural implant, a field of stars.

The release of the docking clamps were a higher, more staccato drum-sound. It “felt” like kicking a shoe off. Like a part of his body was freed.

Then Robinton “walked” forward; the paralysis of his real limbs held, and the ship sidled towards the open expanse of space. He straightened himself up to get rid of the shy sidle, and dove out of the Yokohama’s sheltering womb, the G-forces of acceleration finally defeating freefall and pressing him firmly back into his seat.

AIVAS did not speak, or even guide him as he directed the fast-courier’s sensors to locate the nearest wormhole and lock onto it. Nor did he chide Robinton when that sense of euphoric joy rose after the ship’s computers found its target, and sent them streaking across the system.

(Robinton wondered if someone looking up at the right time might see Rukbat’s light glimmering off of the hull of his ship as he darted across the heavens; it seemed unlikely, especially given AIVAS didn’t confirm it could happen, but stayed silent, allowing Robinton to hang onto harmless whimsy.)

It took several hours for the little ship to cross the distance between Pern and the wormhole. Robinton was not required to stay in the pilot seat for this entire time, or to even pay much attention; once the ship was aimed and boosted, it would continue on until something got in its way, and as he was told—and was seeing—space was very, very, _very_ empty.

For the most part however, he stayed in his seat, and simply _watched_.

Pern, steadily retreating behind him, was extraordinarily beautiful. More exquisite than any pearl or gem. He did not have the words for it, although he was sure eventually he’d put the stylus to the sandtable and attempt it anyway.

The northern continent, he noticed, really _did_ look like a dragon peering over its shoulder. Poor dragon, belabored by thread, like a canine eaten by mange. They _would_ fix it, though. Long-term, thanks to AIVAS and the concerted and completed effort of all the Weyrs of Pern, the end of thread was already in motion. But perhaps they could speed even that up, depending on what was beyond the wormhole.

And the Southern Continent was vast, vast, _vast_ , vaster than he imagined. He always knew the Northern Lords didn’t fully appreciate its size, but as he watched his world grow smaller, he suspected _he_ hadn’t fully understood its scope either.

He _should_ be afraid, shouldn’t he? If Pern was so large, and yet, growing so _small_ in the vision the ship gave him in his mind’s eye, then he was truly miniscule indeed, a mote of dust dancing in a single sunbeam of light thrown from Rukbat.

He wasn’t afraid, though. Simply awestruck by the scope of his universe, and glad he was around to witness it, dust mote he might be.

#

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Assisted by the ship’s computers, Robinton got himself, and his necklin rods, lined up with the correct approach to the mouth of the wormhole. It was much more pleasant doing it in real life, versus the simulation. The gees and the hefty mass of the ship made the experience more pleasantly tactile, a sensation the hundreds of simulations had been missing.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

The countdown of going through a wormhole didn’t cut out in the middle, like AIVAS’s tests with Zair’s jumps _between_ did.

Four.

Three.

Two.

_Last chance to stop_ , he reminded himself. (Robinton didn’t.)

One.

Zeroo0000ϴϴϴϴOOO—

Robinton’s vision whited out, but this time, instead of a flat expanse peppered with distortions and glitches, the white light was made of a million different colors, a million different notes, all from one specific song.

And he was the conductor. At his command, at his will, one section raised its voice in unison joyfully, while another fell.

He didn’t know this song, the melody this wormhole played. But he’d always been a good sight-reader, and the wormhole predicted its own upcoming shape, just like a song built upon itself, with variations upon a theme, and expected patterns of melody and harmony.

Then, up ahead, he spotted the curves of a wall of sound around a silence, around a negative, the vase illusion you saw between the profiles of two faces, something that was there simply because it was _not_.

The first exit.

He took it of course, dove through it like a swimmer diving off a cliff into a swimming hole. And as he’d been taught in the simulations, upon exit he immediately authorized a flip as soon as the last dragonlength of necklin rod was clear of the wormhole.

Gees crushed him for an instant, and a small part of him was uncomfortably aware that if AIVAS _hadn’t_ replaced his heart with something fully artificial, he would have died right there.

Then they squirted off in the opposite direction, nearly in line to go right back into the wormhole, and the ship’s computers confirmed there were no enemies or weapons guarding the wormhole exit.

Robinton flipped the ship again, as taught, to line himself up for a quick return back through the same wormhole, and burned the engines to brake.

AIVAS did not say anything, but shared a series of graphs and a summary of all the scans and calculations he was doing to find their “true” coordinates. Was this a known system? The complete lack of electronic chatter suggested if it was known, it wasn’t inhabited. Then again, the Rukbat system was nearly devoid of electronic chatter too, and was _very_ inhabited.

_There are no habitable or marginally-habitable planets or moons here_ , _according to the EEC report for this system. I do not detect any large-scale evidence that that has changed since the report was made,_ AIVAS said.

“You know where we are?”

_Yes. Without traversing a wormhole, it will take approximately seven turns of coldsleep travel to reach Earth from this location._

“Instead of fifteen,” Robinton mused. From here, a roundtrip to humanity’s cradle could be completed in as little as fifteen turns, instead of thirty. It occurred to him that even if the rest of the wormhole exits did not go anywhere useful, this one alone still presented an advantage or opportunity of a sort, if only a minor one.

He also mused that if something he inadvertently poked on the other side of another exit chased him back, he might be able to dip out here to avoid dragging his pursuer into Rukbat space. 

If Pern had more ships, he could even set up an ambush, of the type he had been trained to automatically try out-maneuvering. Not that Robinton _wanted_ to ambush anything, but if you were being chased by a wher, you had the right to defend yourself…

“Can we replenish any supplies here?”

_Air and water only, if suitable asteroids are found. Fuel and edible organics will be impossible to extract given the technology on this ship. A fast-courier is not built with planetary surveying in mind; it is expected to go in a straight line between known civilized hubs, and refuel/restock at expected depots._

Of course.

“Can I leave my seat?”

_Yes. You will want to eat and nap before we return. Particularly if you chose to investigate additional exits before turning back._

Robinton was torn between wanting to explore more _immediately_ , and wanting to streak back home to share all the excitement with his companions. One pro in the former category was that if something bad was on the other side, he and AIVAS would be the only ones to perish. But he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t doing mental gymnastics to give himself permission to do what he _wanted_ to do; explore.

Ah, but AIVAS was right. He was as exhausted from that one actual jump as he had been after a hundred simulations. 

He pulled out of the neural connection with the chair, untethered himself from the seat, and went to locate Zair, and find out how the firelizard was taking it (although between his own sense of Zair and AIVAS’s monitoring of the ship, he undoubtedly would already know if the firelizard had suffered.)

#

When Robinton woke, he found he’d somehow become untethered, and was floating near the ceiling, which was a bit terrifying, and a bit disorienting, and a bit thrilling. Zair had come with him, having wrapped his tail around Robinton’s neck as his own tether.

_Good morning, Harper,_ AIVAS said. Robinton felt it sounded chipper.

“Good morning, AIVAS. _Is_ it morning?”

_On Pern, yes. How do you feel? Your neural implant is starting to trim unnecessary connections; I expected as much after the wormhole transit, but it’s good to see. I can reuse the material for other purposes._

Robinton, not educated on the subject, took AIVAS’s word that this was good. “I feel rested.”

They were quiet for a while, simply existing.

Or he was; AIVAS had something else on his mind. _Harper…for jump ships, it’s traditional to name them_ after _their maiden voyage. Would you like to name this one?_

Floating in his corner, Robinton pondered a moment, then said, “Mastersinger Merelan.”

_Your mother?_

“Yes.” The more he thought about it, the bigger he smiled. “I’d always wondered if there was a way to immortalize her. My sire tried with song…but his songs are forgotten more and more as time goes on. He trained his successors too well, I daresay.” Both Domick and Menolly’s compositions were more frequently played than anything by Petiron these days. “Nobody will forget she existed if the ship is named after her. Plus,” and he chuckled a little. “I expect if anything goes wrong deep in space, I’ll be hollering for her. Shortly before we meet again.” He chuckled another time, a bit more darkly. His sire would _hate_ it, hate to have the woman he placed on a pedestal connected to such an idea, but he thought his mother would understand the need for a bit of black humor to leaven stress. She was always smarter than his sire.

_I’ve updated our logs and call sign._

Robinton smiled.

#

Fed and washed—did it _count_ as washing, that strange contraption that didn’t seem to actually use much water?—Robinton floated down the corridor and noticed that there was faint music playing. Or there had been, because it stopped.

_I was experimenting with manifesting the song that underlays your thoughts most of the time. Or is that too invasive?_

“On speakers?”

_Yes._

If AIVAS could broadcast the music in his mind, it followed that AIVAS could broadcast his _thoughts._

_Not exactly; only a small percentage of thought is actually in words. The rest, if put through a speaker, would produce incomprehensible static. Even that static would be an incredibly lossy way of transmitting data. For anything human-comprehendible to issue from a speaker, I, or something like me, would have to devote resources to translating on the fly, which would be so high a burden as to render me useless for other calculations. The human mind is incredibly complex. It would also include, shall we say, my own interpretation, an artistic element. I’ve overheard Harper arguments about that, and assume they also apply here._

“Hmm.”

_Your mental music, however, is very clean in comparison—although even it fades into a muddle here and there._

Pulling himself along the corridor, Robinton thought it over. “I suppose you can play the music. _Only_ the music, and only when we’re alone, if you please.”

_Thank you._

Floating through a doorway and pulling himself towards a pilot’s chair, Robinton eventually asked, “Why?” as he strapped himself in.

_Research,_ AIVAS said. _I believe if I can reproduce mental music over a speaker, eventually I’ll be able to reproduce mental images on a screen._

“Why would you need to do that?”

_To share coordinates_ between _when photographs are not available, but someone who has already been there is._

AIVAS has always been intensely curious about dragons and firelizards and _between_. This seemed more of the same. “Do you…envision dragonriders as pilots then? So you can take coordinates from their minds?”

_It’s unlikely that a dragonrider will ever be a good candidate for a pilot. For one, they cannot be separated too far from their dragon in space, which means that jump ships will have to be built far larger than normal, to accommodate the dragon. A bigger ship is a slower ship._

Robinton wondered _how_ slow. Clearly, slow enough that AIVAS worried about it.

_There is also the issue of all the unique neurochemistry the dragon/rider bond creates. It will perhaps induce a rejection of the implant, if the dragon/rider bond cannot handle a third presence. At this moment, even if I were to have a second implant available, I would not risk it on any dragonrider. Nor an ex-rider._

“So…what use would coordinates _between_ be?” Robinton asked.

_Before you awoke at Cove, I believed that_ between _was very likely some derivative of the same 5-fold space that wormholes open, and a jump ship transverses. When you jumped_ between _to Landing the first time, the way your implant was unexpectedly activated confirmed that the sensor detecting entry into wormhole had been triggered. If something, like, say, a firelizard, is able to access 5-fold space from_ anywhere _, it’s possible a connection from that firelizard to a pilot, and a ship designed with necklin rods of the appropriate type may be able to utilize that as an entry point, and enter_ between _as well._

“You would place the weight of an entire jump ship on one tiny firelizard.” Robinton’s voice was flat.

_No, obviously mass is a factor when firelizards and dragons go_ between _. The energy drain of the jump would come from the ship engines, not the firelizard. The firelizard would only create the disturbance that the ship could utilize to slip in and activate its necklin rods. The shield the necklin rods create would allow heat, air, and other amenities to be experienced_ between _, as they are during a normal wormhole jump._ A pause. _And if we’re able to determine how the firelizard initializes that jump_ between _in the first place, then the firelizard may not be needed if a technological method can be devised._

Robinton was decidedly unimpressed, imagining the wave of hysteria and accusations of blasphemy that would resound not only through the Conclave, but through the Weyrs. Machines acting like dragons! How dare they!

_That’s one political aspect to it,_ AIVAS agreed. _But the lesser one._

“How so?”

_We do not know how the rest of the human-populated galaxy has evolved over the last two millennia. Presumably technology has evolved greatly. This jump ship, and all other technology the original colonists brought with them, may be vastly obsolete._

_However, the capabilities of firelizards and dragons are possibly still unique. The Eridani experimented greatly with mentasynth, but according to my records, the original Pernese dragonets were the only naturally evolved species ever encountered with similar abilities._

_Therefore, it’s possible a jump ship upgraded to utilize_ between _will be a significant technological advantage even two millennia later, allowing Pernese jump ships to outperform others in speed and maneuverability. This may keep you and your planet safer. At least until your industry and new Crafthalls can mature and develop a technological base._

“You’ve been thinking about this for a while,” Robinton mused.

_I have. This is why two of my requirements for receiving the implant were the presence of a bonded firelizard, and indications of mentasynth enhancement. Devising a jump ship that also jumps_ between _may ultimately be critical to protecting Pern._

Robinton sat quietly in the pilot’s seat for a while, bumping his lips with a pensive knuckle as he thought. Yes, he could see why AIVAS had such interest. And why it should concern him too.

Then he set the matter aside, for later discussion with people like Lytol and D’ram, and changed the subject by saying, “I’ve decided to be terribly selfish. Unless you talk me out of it. I would like to explore down the wormhole a bit further, while we’re alone.”

_Just because you enjoy something doesn’t mean you’re selfish for enjoying it,_ AIVAS pointed out.

“Perhaps not.”

_You could spend the rest of your life exploring, and another ten lifetimes besides, and there’d still be universe left over for others,_ AIVAS said. _The galaxy is vast._

That did comfort Robinton, somewhat. He leaned back into his chair, let the ship interact with the contacts at the back of his neck. Then _he_ was the ship again, arrowing through the void towards the wormhole.

#

On the third exit, the local system was as empty as the previous of human presence, but there was a second wormhole. AIVAS added it to his database—this wormhole was unknown to him, unmarked on the vastly out-of-date EEC exploration maps his databases contained—and remarked, _You cannot split yourself in two to explore both that one, and this one. There’ll be enough for all._

“Mmm,” Robinton said, admiring a lovely blue-green gas giant that he’d focused the ship’s optics on. It was surrounded by over two-dozen moons, like a grand lady’s jewels.

Then, once rested, he turned around and went back into the wormhole.

#

Three more jumps, and they emerged into a system with active buoys surrounding the mouth of the wormhole, the first they’d encountered. The first sign of _human life_ they’d encountered.

_Turn around, prepare for re-entry, but idle. I need to update my library of protocols. And any other library we can capture._

Robinton’s artificial heart beat steadily at the appropriate, elevated pace for such an adrenaline-packed moment, but a strange mix of chills/joy/fear made the hair on the back of his arms rise.

(He noted, in a far-off corner of his mind, that it was impossible now for the hair at the back of his neck to rise. That’s where he was plugged into the ship.)

The unmanned, automated buoys at the entrance of the wormhole gave off a steady stream of unmelodic chirps, beeps, and pings, along with glitchy static, over an audio channel, as AIVAS attempted to decipher the communication protocol they used.

Eventually AIVAS said, _These buoys mark the mapping of a polity called the Betan Astronomical Survey_. _It seems this system is not inhabited, but has been mapped, at least up to the mouth of this wormhole. Given we didn’t encounter buoys in the other systems, perhaps this is the extent of their exploration in this direction to date. Or perhaps those wormholes also recently opened._

Robinton was intensely aware that these Betans were all but on Pern’s doorstep, now that the wormhole in Rukbat space had opened. Were these people friendly? Unfriendly?

_I’m presently unable to get past the encryption, but the unencrypted stream gives us directions to Beta Colony, Earth, and several other destinations, some that already existed in my databases, and some that do not. It also gives a list of lost ships, both from the Betan Astronomical Survey, and “non-affiliated wormhole explorers”_.

Earth. Humanity’s ancestral homeland. He felt quite overwhelmed. And, unrelated to the shock of having a real, genuine route to Earth, he also felt an odd twinge of sorrow for the ships listed sorrowfully on the buoy. Almost as if it were a grave marker.

Hopefully _The Mastersinger Merelan_ would never end up on such a buoy.

Turning his mind back to immediate issues, he asked, “Is Pern mentioned? Anywhere?”

_If it is, it is not under the names of Pern, Rukbat, Alpha Sagittarii, or_ 天淵三 _, which means “T_ _he Third Star of Celestial Spring” in your language._ _Nor is it listed under the EEC numeric designation, or in any astronomic way, using Earth as a starting point, or Beta Colony._

“When where these buoys left?”

_Approximately seventy turns ago._

“Can we communicate with these buoys?”

_We can leave a message, yes. Do you wish to? It will not be read until another ship comes this direction. There is also a mail forwarding drop, but, again, it won’t be picked up and transported through the other wormhole until a ship comes by. Which could be a century or more._

Robinton was tempted to leave something whimsical, like _Robinton woz ‘ere_ , or even a song, but it was probably unwise to leave clues his world existed, just yet. Just in case someone came by tomorrow, and not a century from now. He sighed. “No.” Then he frowned. “Did the buoys, ah, photograph us?”

_Unfortunately, yes. That’s why I was trying to break the encryption, see if I could wipe our presence from their logs. I could try harder, but it might be interpreted aggressively, should anyone check later on._ A pause. _The buoys are small. We could bring one into the airlock._ _Or tow them into the wormhole to destroy them._

Robinton was not particularly enthused with the idea that Pern’s first contact with the rest of human civilization might involve destroying someone else’s property. Especially since these seemed to be nothing more than road signs, pointing lost explorers home. It would grieve him deeply if he removed a sign that might have been the critical clue helping some lost band of explorers find their ways back to their families.

Of course, he also had a responsibility to his own planet, and all the people living there.

“Would taking a buoy for us to examine help you learn more about these people?” Robinton asked.

_Yes. It will tell us something about their manufacturing capabilities and techniques as of seventy years ago. I may learn something the Smiths can adopt, as well._

“Could we return it when we are done?”

_Possibly. If there are protections, trying to open one up may result it becoming useless and inert._

Robinton tried to decide if they should destroy them both, leave both alone, or take one for study—possibly destroying it in the process.

Eventually he said, “Let us take one then, for Jancis and you to study. When we come back this way, we can put it back.” Perhaps that would be enough to salve his squirming sense of guilt.

It was an interesting effort, positioning his ship so that he was close enough to grab a buoy without sending it careening off in another direction. He also had to put the space-suit back on again, and cycle the airlock for the first time since he’d entered. It would have helped, very much, to have another set of hands—Zair, while enthusiastic, was far too small to help—but eventually Robinton got it into the airlock, and strapped down, where it sat, blinking and beeping on a radio channel.

Then, he judged, it was time to turn around and go home. With the maps AIVAS had acquired, they now had choices of where to go. And with the buoy, proof that he’d been _somewhere_ , at least.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My time-dilation ideas when it comes to neural implants come from Shards of Honor, where Cordelia notes, after the pilot takes them through a wormhole, that something that'd taken only a few moments for her had exhausted the pilot. I took that to mean pilots experience a distorted sense of time, either from the wormhole physics itself, or a neural implant enhancement that fires up the pilot's perception of time so they are able to react quickly enough to pilot the ship through the wormhole.
> 
> All my other extrapolations about wormholes and jump ships are made up out of thin air, and don't really come from either Pern or Vorkosigan universe canon. There is possibly some detail in the Vorkosigan books, particularly Ethan of Athos or the quaddie-related stories, that I've overlooked, that will invalidate my ideas here. If they do, I apologize. I usually try to break canon willfully, with intent, and not simply ignorantly.
> 
> Re: Pern canon...AIVAS was tasked with stellar calculations to solve the problem of thread, but the idea that he's Eridani tech, and specifically a wormhole navigation computer that was mothballed and used for other tasks, is my own speculation.
> 
> Lastly: Whee! Robinton in Space! And I did it in only two chapters. ::pats self on back:: 
> 
> Robinton isn't a jump ship savant; rather, I posit that Eridani-type jump ship tech utilizes a co-pilot AI to an extent not seen in any other nation's jump ships or pilots. AIVAS is carrying a very big portion of the load, and if Robinton was suddenly handed a Barrayar-type implant for a Barrayar-type ship, he'd be next to useless and require much more additional training.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cache of Betan Cultural Videos is discovered.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Robinton didn’t expect a welcoming committee in the docking bay. Three dragons—bronze, brown, and white—hovered expectantly, with spacesuit-wearing riders aboard. The timing of it suggested…well, _timing_.

An ill-tempered side of him, covering the guilty twinge, considered just sitting in the ship until dragon lungs gave out. But (he sighed), they’d just come back.

_Ruth!_ Zair caroled happily, looping around Robinton in the pilot chair.

“Yes, yes, go tell Ruth and the others about all the adventure we’ve been on,” Robinton said. Tiroth, Ruth, and Canth. D’ram and Lord Jaxom had already somewhat known of things. F’nor had not.

He supposed it could be worse; Mnementh or Ramoth could be there. From where he was sitting now, it looked like Brekke _possibly_ had told nobody beyond F’nor, and her weyrmate was here on her behalf.

Although F’nor would be demanding _explanations_ , undoubtedly, and was probably one hair shy of going to F’lar.

Robinton unstrapped himself, and began to run scenarios for responding through his head.

It took over half an hour to get back into the spacesuit, even without malingering. AIVAS told him when Ruth vanished first, then Canth, and finally Tiroth. And when they returned, lungs refreshed with air.

Robinton climbed into the airlock, cycled it. When it was empty, he unstrapped the Betan Astronomical Survey buoy, and opened the outer hatch.

Three dragons loomed before him, staring down.

Remembering he had a radio, Robinton switched it on, looked up at them, and said, “My, my. And I didn’t even have to send Zair to get someone! Tiroth, do you think you could take this thing off my hands?”

The radio crackled, and D’ram growled, “What _is_ that, Harper?”

“I stole someone’s signpost,” Robinton replied.

#

“Five days! Five _days_ and no dragon or firelizard could find you! They even checked _whens_!”

“You went through? _ALONE?!”_

“What _is_ that thing?”

The last one was from Piemur, so Robinton said, as he stripped out of his space suit, “A present for your wife. D’ you think she’ll like it?” He gave Piemur a rakish wink, as if all of this was nothing more than an extended attempt to steal the Journeyman’s woman from him.

Piemur looked like a pot of klah ready to boil over on the hearth.

“No, really,” Robinton said. “Go get Master Jancis.”

Piemur didn’t move.

Robinton’s smile faded away, and he looked down his nose at his Journeyman and jerked his chin in command.

The young man came _this close_ to losing it, but stalked off, unwilling to let Robinton win by default, as he would if Piemur exploded into a hopping, yelling temper.

“As for what it is,” Robinton said, sitting and tugging off his boots. Tuck came to help, clearly more amused by the commotion than anything. “It’s a buoy. Like the ones left out by a Sea-Hold. Except in space. This place called _Beta Colony_ left it behind, outside a wormhole.” The other boot came off, and then he stood, and stepped out of the bottoms of the space suit. “It actually is a signpost. AIVAS said we might learn something if we study it. It wasn’t the only buoy; I left the other one there. We can return this one too, after we’ve studied it. Unless we accidentally destroy it.”

“So are we just pretending you didn’t vanish for five days?” Lytol demanded. “D’ram thought you meant _one_ day, at most.” He glanced at D’ram for confirmation. “And _he_ didn’t talk about _where_ he’d taken you to until the third day!”

Robinton tried to shoot D’ram a look of appreciation, saw D’ram’s face, and aborted the gesture. “Well, no, obviously several days did pass—but don’t you want to hear about everything I’ve _learned?_ In this one system, there was this planet, blue-green like a glass globe! And all around it were these tiny moons—not just two, dozens, _literally_ dozens, all dancing around it!” Gesturing in excitement, Robinton made a beeline towards the porch, and his study, so he could make plans. They should leave immediately. Or as immediately as he could get this all sorted out.

Against their better judgement, a small crowd of people followed him inside.

#

“So the first hop,” Robinton explained, “Went nowhere. Rather, it went somewhere, but nowhere interesting to my purposes. AIVAS calculated that if someone went into coldsleep from that system, they’d arrive in half the time than it’d take from here, which I suppose is a minor asset.”

“Arrive where?” F’nor asked.

“Earth! But I suppose there are other systems you could point yourself at. Not that we’re going anywhere by coldsleep; we don’t have the facilities.” Robinton again imagined that coffin-like box.

Menolly sat on the loveseat next to Swift, and looked at Robinton patiently with that expression that said she’d have _things_ to say once everyone was gone. Swift seemed to sense it, and had put a great deal of space between himself and her. Although given the general agitation of her firelizards, perhaps he was simply avoiding them.

“And a few other hops were the same—“

“Few other hops,” Menolly said, in her least-impressed voice.

“Yes, the wormhole seems to branch, like a system of roots. Originally I took the first exit, but there were still more exits to explore, and I hadn’t really _found_ anything, so I took a nap, because navigating a wormhole is a little tiring, and then went and tried some of the others. Aside from that pretty planet with the moons, we didn’t find much… _until_ we exited the last wormhole I tried, and found the buoys. And!” Robinton exclaimed, holding up a forefinger and wagging it at them. “Guess what I found there?”

“A signpost,” Menolly said, with weary patience.

“A _map_. From here to Earth. Well, to Earth by way of Beta Colony, as they are the ones who mapped that system and left the buoys. And there were other destinations, too. AIVAS said the buoy had been left within the past seventy turns, so…in comparison with, say, the age of the Dawn Sisters, that’s positively _yesterday_.”

F’nor said, “AIVAS was not at Landing, when we went looking for you. He was with you?”

“In the ship, yes,” Robinton responded with half-truth. “I named her the _Mastersinger Merelan_ ,” he added. “After my mother. But yes, AIVAS went with me. He’s a stellar navigation computer; he was _meant_ to roam the stars. He is a marvelous guide—which should surprise nobody. I would have kept going if I could—”

“Oh, really,” Menolly muttered.

“But my _intent_ to—“ He waved a hand around, “To test the ship and everything related to it, and to find _something_ —had been achieved. So I returned. _Now_ the focus is to determine…” and here Robinton’s racing mind slowed down. “What do we need to _learn_ to—“ he raised a finger, “Protect this planet—“ and he raised a second finger, “Protect its people—“ and he raised a third finger, “—and foster diplomatic relations so that nobody, _ever_ , emerges from that wormhole with anything other than an intent to appreciate us as a culture and as a people, share knowledge, and trade with our Holds and Crafthalls.”

He looked at his audience very seriously. “The wormhole is not closing anytime soon; AIVAS says they remain open as stellar phenomenon for thousands of years. And only a handful of jumps away, the Betan Astronomical Survey has already mapped a system. If they push their exploration as far as I did by myself in _five days_ , they _will_ find us. With our trousers around our ankles, might I add.” He stabbed a finger at his palm. “We. _Need_. Reconnaissance. The wormhole has been open already two, three months. We need to seek knowledge. Now.” He looked around at them. The half-jest anger they’d held in regards to his vanishing trick had been replaced with sober worry about the concerns raised in his blunt speech. He looked around at his crew Menolly, Piemur, Tuck, Swift, Lytol, Jancis, holding their eyes in turn. “Can we be ready to leave the day after tomorrow?”

F’nor and Brekke looked shocked. Likely because his plans were much further along than they’d realized.

“I’m ready,” Menolly said, her ire with him put aside for now. “We just need to get the rest of the supplies on board.”

“At your command,” Tuck said jauntily. Swift merely nodded.

“Are there language banks onboard?” Lytol asked.

“Yes.”

“Then I can study during the trip.”

Piemur and Jancis looked at each other. Jancis said, “You wanted me to examine the buoy?”

“As much as you can. I hope to put it back where it was once we enter that system again. My intention was never thievery, and I’d hate to give our planet a reputation for it. It’ll take three-and-a-half, four days to get from here to there. Please discover what you can during that time.”

“How will you get there?” D’ram said.

“That’s entirely up to you, my friend,” Robinton said. “I’m sorry I put you in a bind; I meant to run wormhole-crossing simulations only, but that led to a live test, and that led to a bit of exploration. Exploration led to naps; wormholes are exhausting. However, AIVAS can remote-pilot the _Mastersinger Merelan_ from the Yokahama to here,” Robinton said, waving in the direction of the beach.

_With caveats_ , AIVAS said. _You will need to bring me to Landing so I can contact the Yokohama, and stay connected as the fast-courier maneuvers._

“—D’ram, if I’ve worn out my welcome and you’d rather no more involvement.”

D’ram was quiet for a moment, his arms crossed over his chest. Eventually he said, “If that was ideal, AIVAS wouldn’t have had Tiroth bring the shipping containers down.”

Robinton said nothing.

“Day after tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” Running a hand through his greying red hair, D’ram left the room.

“Thank you,” Robinton called after his retreating back.

D’ram made a gesture that either waved the thanks off, or perhaps said something about Robinton and all of his schemes.

Others followed D’ram’s lead, including Jancis, Piemur following his wife, Lytol, Lord Jaxom following Lytol in order to pump him for information.

Tuck leaned against a wall, Swift looked between him and Robinton.

“Why don’t you two go, and collect Piemur for practice?” Robinton suggested.

Tuck smiled and left, with Swift trailing behind.

Menolly, F’nor, and Brekke remained.

F’nor eventually said, “If this wormhole opening up is so important, why are you running off without telling anyone about it?”

“How long do you think the Conclave will deliberate?” Robinton asked. “Until it’s too late, perhaps?”

“I wasn’t talking about the Conclave.”

Robinton’s eyes slid to Brekke, then back to F’nor. “I cannot have my heels tied down by the Conclave. I judged it was better to act first, then beg forgiveness.” He paused. Did not touch his neck, or even run a hand over his shorn head again. “I also have no time for debates about my health, or whether I’ve mutilated myself or not.”

Brekke said, “What _is_ that thing on your neck? Really?”

He sighed. “It’s a neural implant, designed to allow me to pilot a jump ship through a wormhole. A key to a door, basically. AIVAS had exactly one to bestow; he said the original makers were paranoid about the wrong person getting their hands on the technology. He decided to give it to me when astronomical readings suggested a wormhole was opening up in our system about six months ago.”

She considered that, then said, “Why did AIVAS not stay around to tell us this is why you collapsed? Medically, we could have taken better care of you if we had some idea of what was going on. Master Oldive believed it was a stroke.”

_AIVAS?_ he asked.

_Because your heart almost failed as we were talking, before I decided to administer the implant, and all my attention was on keeping you alive. I had to keep your damaged heart going, and the implant was not designed for that. I had to improvise, and reprogram the implant to address that scenario, while simultaneously retaining its intended function. The calculations took all of my resources._

“AIVAS said that before the implant was given to me, my heart went into failure. The implant is a neurological implant, it is not designed to treat _heart_ defects. That he managed to salvage my heart _and_ still bestow a working implant is testament to his intense focus. But it left no resources for the voice interface.”

Brekke thought about this, and then seemed to accept it. “Then we owe AIVAS a debt,” she said.

“In many more ways than the life of a single man,” Robinton said. “Although, I am very grateful to be alive, and to have seen the inside of a wormhole.”

Brekke looked at her weyrmate for a very long moment, something unspoken crossing between them. Then she turned to Robinton. “I notice your party doesn’t have a Healer. I offer myself.”

Robinton thought of the coldsleep coffin, filling up the small Healer room in the ship, and realized that between that and his long recovery, he’d developed a slight avoidance of Healers, associated as they were with death and suffering. An understandable bias on an emotional level, but dangerous to his people, given he’d completely forgot to even consider finding a Healer. 

However, he was concerned with Brekke going alone, without her weyrmate. Like Lytol, she’d lost her dragon several turns ago, and F’nor had been the one to bring her out of the intense soul-rending grief that the severance of that great bond had caused.

Robinton warned, “It’s likely the trip will be lengthy, a turn or more. And, I’m sorry to say, F’nor can’t join us, the ship does not have room for Canth. With our cargo, it doesn’t even have room for Ruth. Quarters are obscenely tight.”

“You were considering bringing Lord Jaxom?” F’nor asked.

“No. Especially not with Lytol already coming along.”

“How _did_ Lord Jaxom get involved?”

“Funding. Lytol decided to speak to him.”

“Hm.”

Brekke said, “Yes, I understand the trip will be long.” She charitably did not remind Robinton that she was _not_ tied at the hip to her weyrmate in exact words, but her tone implied it.

Perhaps he deserved that. He could see she felt wounded that he hadn’t confided in her at the Hatching. “We will need to go to Landing so AIVAS can create something called an ‘ID’ for you, then.”

“We can do that now,” F’nor suggested. “Although the AIVAS was not responding last we visited.”

“He’ll respond if I accompany you,” Robinton said. Then he rubbed at his temples. “What else…?”

Menolly spoke, startling him, for she’d been so quiet he’d forgotten she was there. “When all of you get back from Landing, Brekke should observe what Tuck, Swift, and Piemur are doing. So she can treat symptoms, and not mistake it for something else.”

“I hadn’t even thought of that,” Robinton said. He smiled at Menolly. “Excellent thinking.”

“Really,” she said.

He glanced at her again, and concluded it probably was time to have a _talk_. To F’nor and Brekke, he said, “I need to speak to Master Menolly, catch up on some things. If you’ve no more questions for me, why don’t I meet you on the beach?”

It looked like Brekke still had questions, but given she was coming along, she decided to be patient. Brekke and F’nor left, closing the door behind them.

Settling a hip against his desk, Robinton tucked his hands in his pockets, cocked his head, regarded his erstwhile student, and smiled.

“I’ve seen misbehaving Apprentices look at me like that,” she said.

“Ah, but did they carry it off as well as I do?” Robinton replied, lifting his eyebrows entreatingly.

An attempt not to smile, to be _stern_ , flickered across her face. The smile won out, at least somewhat. But her words were serious. “You vanished for five days without a word, we hadn’t even _realized_ you’d returned from the Hatching until D’ram came to me and asked if I _knew_ why you hadn’t asked for a ride back yet. Not from Benden Weyr, but from the Yokohama.”

“The situation evolved.”

“You could have died, going through the wormhole. _Wormholes._ ”

“You couldn’t have prevented that, if you’d been there,” Robinton said softly. “All you could have done is die alongside me.” He took his hands out of his pocket, and crossed them across his chest. “If I were really being cruel, I might talk about Sebell right now, how he’d react if neither of us returned.”

“Well, you’re speaking of it, so I suppose that makes you cruel by your own words. However, you, I, _and_ Piemur are going together, and something could happen…so in a way, Sebell is already on his own,” she said. “He knows that.”

“Yes, but at least now this implant is tested. This risks for all of us are lower.”

Frustration gleamed in her eyes. “I don’t _like_ you sacrificing yourself.”

Robinton pursed his lips. “You like me _because_ I sacrifice myself.”

“…what?”

He gave her a smile that challenged her to find fault in his statement. He knew very well what attracted people to him as followers. Menolly was no more immune to it than Sebell or Piemur were.

From Menolly’s dire look, she knew too, and disliked that she responded to it. Probably because she was a giving person, and liking someone else _because_ they sacrificed freely ran counter to her self-image as a giver instead of a taker. Or perhaps she simply disliked that he was crass enough to mention it—a quibble with the delivery, not the content.

“Do you forgive me?” he asked. “For being myself?”

Menolly sighed, put her face in her hands for a bit. Beauty, on her shoulder, quietly rubbed her muzzle against Menolly’s ear.

Then she raised her face. “Yes, I was out of line, Master.”

Er, not _exactly_ the response he was hoping for. 

Robinton swung away from the desk and sat next to her on the loveseat. “Caring, loving, isn’t _out of line_. Never.” The world would be a better place if more people cared, in his sometimes-irate opinion.

“However, we are going into a situation neither of us have ever experienced. Not just the dangers of space, but diplomatic and social situations, too. I will likely do numerous things that will scare _anyone_ who cares for me. But I don’t act that way as some sort of death wish. Sometimes I my think it’s the only option, or best option. Even the lesser evil, sometimes, such as with my thievery of the buoy. Other times, I may simply be forgetful, with many other things occupying my mind. Sometimes—like these past few days—I will be,” he sighed. “Human. And overwhelmed that so many people who care for me will be yelling at me, all at once. It’s easier to procrastinate, sometimes. Easier to explore just one more wormhole, and all the joys that entails, than return and have well-meaning people kvetch.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not chiding you, merely sharing. I do need ballast, sometimes. It’s easy for power to corrupt, to become so used to simply doing your own thing despite protests because the protests are often so petty and banal, that even when protests are genuinely warranted, you ignore them. At that point, a good thumping is required.” He narrowed his eyes in thought. “But, I think—“ he said carefully. “That sometimes your reactions are a performance.”

“I _do_ care!”

“I know,” he assured her. “That’s not in question at all. You wear your heart on your sleeve, my dear girl. But is _this_ manifestation of it, today, genuine? Or is it a part of the role you feel you must play, for someone of your rank, or status, or gender?” He huffed a chuckle. “I have no doubt Sebell and Piemur care, for example.”

He could see what he’d said impact her, could see he’d given her something to think about.

“You are one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. But you occasionally subsume it beneath roles you _think_ you should be playing. It’s your social sensitivity, I think. Our world does not look kindly on intelligent women, it shames them, tells you to go back to playing your _role_ instead of saying sensible things. And you are _good_ at this role, because you are sensitive and adaptable and smart. Smart people can play roles very well.” He twinkled at her. “Look at me.”

She snorted.

“But I would challenge you, on this trip, to examine your motivations. I would much rather have you in the yoke beside me, showing off your intelligence as we tackle problems, than you trying to reassure the world that you really, truly _care_ because you feel the pressure of rank or gender on you, and being seen as _caring_ is a safe bet when it comes to being perceived as ‘right’. Safer than being _smart_ and rankling feathers.”

Menolly’s face turned wholly red.

“I also think,” he added, “That you’ve been belittled so often for not being feminine enough that when a feminine emotion does strike you, you occasionally overdo it. ‘See! I _am_ a proper woman!’”

“You were wrong not to tell us where you’d be,” Menolly said tiredly. Mulishly. Asserting herself. This part, she stood by, even if the rest of what he said was making her think.

“I did not communicate in a timely fashion,” Robinton agreed. “You are right. That happened because I was afraid.” He paused. “Possibly not even because of anyone here. I may have been shunting other anxieties into that. If it’s not acceptable for me to be afraid of what the wormhole might bring, because I’m aware I _must_ act, perhaps it’s more acceptable in my mind to be afraid of people being wroth with me. So I pour one cup of anxiety into another.” He studied the toes of his boots. “Out of all the turns you’ve known me, do I have a pattern of not communicating?”

Her reply was quick. “Absolutely. Whenever you’re up to something, you begin telling people certain things, and omit others. You control the flow of information, and act with your body and voice to misdirect when you _must_ say something, but want it to be construed as something else.”

“Let me rephrase that: With you? Or Sebell?”

She fell silent for a long time. “Only when you’re afraid of our reactions,” she admitted. “I’ve never seen you play with Sebell, for example, or willfully mislead him. When you woke up, you told us everything.”

“Yes.”

They fell silent.

Then Menolly said, clenching her fists, “I don’t _want_ to put this anger down.”

“Mm? Well, what purpose does it serve? I’m _actually_ asking, not implying it’s purposeless. Most emotions have a purpose, even if it’s hidden from the self.”

She sighed heavily. “Retaliation,” she said.

“For…?”

“Hurting me.”

He stroked the back of her hair for a moment, then clasped his hands back between his knees.

“I feel so _much_ …fear, worry, pain…and then the firelizards amplify it. They pick up everything I feel. How do I get rid of it? I can’t put it in a song.”

He understood. Such a song would be wildly misconstrued. Some emotions were too powerful.

“So I get _angry_ with you.” She paused, squinted. “And I don’t want to be like Lessa, just aimlessly _angry_ all the time, so I wrap it in something legitimate. Everyone else was concerned, so I could be, too.” Suddenly she swore. “You’re _right_. I _am_ performing.”

“Most people do. It takes effort to be aware of it, and more effort to deconstruct it. Even then, there’s no guarantee you’ll catch yourself playing a _before_ you’ve already done it.” He gazed at her, then bumped her with his shoulder. “Lytol fancies himself my second for this expedition…but you’ve been my right hand for longer.” He smiled. “I’ll tolerate your quirks, if you tolerate my wild eccentricities and lizard-brained schemes?”

“I’ll try,” she said wryly. Then, “Right hand? Isn’t that Sebell?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say you’re my _left_ hand; that’s Tuck and Swift. Perhaps I’m a multi-limbed monster, like those little crawly things you find under a log. Plenty of left and right hands for everyone. Or a tunnel-snake! Won’t be the first time I’ve been called one of those. Nor the last.”

She chuckled. Then it faded, and she said, “What did you mean earlier, about people thinking you were ‘mutilating’ yourself?”

“Oh, I have dozens of extra limbs beneath this tunic,” he said airily. “It happened after I went through the first wormhole. I got an extra pair with each jump. Only worms can go through wormholes, right?”

“You’re being disgusting,” she said, with an _Oh, you!_ flap of her hand. Then she closed her eyes, as if beseeching something or someone for help. “Actually, I don’t care, I’m performing a role again. I’m _supposed_ to protest ‘gross’ things. Blast!” She spat the word in a bit of frustrated exasperation.

He grinned. Then he reached up and loosened his cravat, and pulled it off to lay over a thigh. “Look here.” He hunched over a bit, to give her better access.

Menolly pulled the edge of his collar down. “Oh. What is—“

“Brekke and Manora saw it by accident; that’s what sent F’nor and Brekke here, I suspect. I’ve been trying to keep it covered, at least until my hair is long enough to hide it.”

“That’s very strange. But the gold is pretty.” She let go of his collar. “Although I suppose the aesthetics don’t really matter. _Why_ is it there?”

“It allows me to attach my mind to the ship. I sit down in the pilot’s seat, and lean back, and this,” he swirled a finger at the back of his neck, “—interfaces with it.”

“Was that there when you woke up?” She frowned, clearly searching her memory and coming up blank.

He shook his head. “AIVAS didn’t add it until I was mobile.” He snorted. “Not that I did a great job of concealing anything. _And they call me a Master…!”_ He mocked himself.

“So you’re still being altered?”

“Only small changes.”

“It’s good Brekke is coming along, then.”

Robinton said, “Speaking of Brekke, if we find people out there are friendly, perhaps she can find a place in one of their Healer Halls, and she can add their techniques to our own.” He frowned and said, “It would be excellent if all of us could do something like that.” He sighed. “But that’s our second priority.” They had _so many_ priorities, all of them vying for space and attention.

She touched his shoulder. “Go get Brekke her ID. I’ll help D’ram pack the containers he brought back a few days ago.”

He didn’t rise immediately. “Are you upset I pointed out your reactions earlier were performative?”

A heavy sigh, tinged with irritation and frustration. “Yes, but you weren’t entirely wrong, and nobody but me can really sort through any of it.”

He continued to linger. Then he said, “If you need to talk, just barge in and pull me aside. The next day or so will be very busy, but I can make time if I know I need to.”

“I’ll be fine,” Menolly said.

Robinton patted her shoulder, and rose.

#

Eight people, seven bedrooms, six on the lower deck of the ship, one on the top. Luckily, Piemur and Jancis were a couple, so Robinton made sure they took one of the larger lower rooms, offered Lytol the other large room, and let the rest sort themselves out.

Freefall was a novelty to all, and more difficult to maneuver in with so many people and so many firelizards bumping about. Menolly discovered, to her dismay and others’ laughter, that her faire could surround her and take her just about anywhere in the ship by flapping in concert if she didn’t hang onto something. Given how Zair acted around him, he thought it was some firelizard swarming instinct, trying to add her to their swooping number now that she could “fly”.

AIVAS ran them through security and emergency procedures. Then Robinton reminded everyone that anything not secured could and _would_ become a dangerous projectile, so _use_ the straps and lockers and keep things stored away when not in use. Use them immediately, right now; they could not exit the Yokohama without generating acceleration gees, and the _last_ thing he wanted was their trip to end before it had begun because someone had been careless.

Nobody else wanted that either, and he was gratified to see they were diligent.

The one thing Robinton did not anticipate—although he should have—was how many people desired to watch him pilot, and drifted into the cockpit behind him curiously when it looked like they were about to get underway. The urge was understandable, but he simply did not want so many eyes on him.

He pursed his lips, then ordered, “Brekke, please use the chair on the right. Lytol, the one on the left. Everyone else should strap in in your quarters, or in the lounge. I recommend you use the comconsoles to watch the Yokohama and Pern behind us; it really is a beautiful sight. AIVAS can show you how.”

The cockpit decluttered itself of people and firelizards, and Robinton locked the door behind them. To Brekke and Lytol, he said, “There’s not really much to see, but I know you wanted to know more about the implant, Brekke. And, Lytol, when I’m in the pilot’s chair I won’t necessarily be able to drop what I’m doing and attend to anything else. I thought you should witness why.”

“Fair enough.”

Pulling himself into his chair, Robinton wiped the contacts, and then strapped himself in. Then he silently said, _Let me know when everyone’s settled._

To his surprise, AIVAS threw up a view of every person, in his mind’s eye. The camera feeds from every room. Robinton leaned back and relaxed into the chair, although he still shivered when the neural implant touched the interface, and connected. Brekke watched intently.

When everyone was settled, Robinton said out loud, “Everyone’s set,” and began flipping switches. The ever-present woosh of the life support became overshadowed by the engines turning on. Then the limb paralysis kicked in. 

He cleared his throat. “AIVAS?”

Since he’d spoken out loud, AIVAS replied out loud. “Yes?”

“Anything I should be thinking about that I’m not thinking about?”

“No. We are ready to go. I am opening the bay now.”

“Please put it on the screens here.”

AIVAS did, and Robinton could see the bay opening in his mind’s eye, and on the screens before them.

“Whee!” Robinton murmured irreverently, and released the docking clamps. The ship reverberated with that drum-like clacking sound, and he was rewarded with the synthetic feeling of having his “feet” free. “Here we go,” and at a mental twitch of his temporarily paralyzed legs, they shot off towards the open maw of the bay, suppressing an urge to dance. He didn’t know if a jump ship _could_ dance, and it was ridiculous to try.

_I suppose it depends on how you define “dance”,_ AIVAS said. _And whether you wish your passengers to survive it._

Lytol and Brekke made small sounds as the gees pressed them back in their seats. Robinton noticed elsewhere that a few firelizards tumbled around, squawking in surprise. Luckily they weren’t hurt, merely offended, and better-obeyed their master’s and mistress’s instructions to hold on somewhere.

“Can we see behind us, AIVAS?” Robinton asked.

One of the screens changed from the view before them, to the view behind them.

Then, once they cleared the Yokohama, Robinton pointed them at the wormhole, and accelerated. Lytol and Brekke made soft, astonished comments over the retreating globe of Pern.

It took several hours to reach the wormhole. Robinton chose to mostly remain in the chair, enjoying the sensation of movement with a silly half-smile on his face. Once they got to a set cruising speed, he allowed people to move about as needed. Jancis was in the cargo bay, continuing to examine the stolen wormhole buoy with AIVAS.

Eventually Lytol said, “Where are we going, then?”

He didn’t mean immediately, Robinton knew. _That_ was already decided: they were returning to where Robinton had found the buoy, this time without diversions to explore the other unfruitful exits.

AIVAS put up the wormhole map they’d pulled from that system. It showed a long series of jumps leading to Beta Colony. Beyond that was Earth, and a wide array of other systems and hubs.

“Our problem,” Robinton mused, “Is that this is simply a map. What are the people of Beta Colony like? Or Earth? Who lives on Vervain? Or Athos?” Detaching himself from the chair, he leaned forward and tapped his fingers on his knee. “I believe we have no choice but to cautiously move towards Beta Colony, and hope somewhere along the way, AIVAS can find us more information. Preferably before we put our foot in anything.”

“I would like to see Earth,” Brekke said.

“Me too,” he agreed. Then a thought occurred to him. “AIVAS, is Eridani on the maps?”

“Its star is marked,” AIVAS said. “I do not see a wormhole route.”

Robinton sighed. “I would have liked to know more about this neural implant. And mentasynth.”

Brekke looked thoughtful. Half her patients were dragons, and dragons had been created using Eridani techniques on firelizards.

Changing topics, Robinton said, “AIVAS, has anything been deciphered about that buoy?”

“We’ve learned a bit about their construction capabilities, their standardized system of measurement, and have deduced the buoys power themselves harvesting energy escaping from the wormhole. I have been able to crack the encryption and decompile the code, but aside from some code comments, very little information cultural or otherwise has been left behind. There is no mail in its queue, and the only images it has in memory are of us.”

“What do the code comments say?”

“It says, ‘I don’t know what this does, but it breaks when I remove it, so I’m leaving it.’”

“Someone else got the buoy and left a note?” Robinton asked.

“No. It means the last programmer updating the code tried to remove that section of code, and the software no longer functioned correctly when compiled. The comment was left so that future programmers who revisit it understand removing that section will break the functionality. It’s like marginalia on a manuscript.”

Lytol said, “Was that the actual language it was written in? Or did you translate?”

“That was word-for-word,” AIVAS said. “It seems you share a common written tongue with Beta Colony.”

That was encouraging. “Tell us if you learn anything more,” Robinton advised.

“Of course, Harper.”

#

When they arrived at the wormhole, Robinton ordered everyone seated again, and not to leave their seats until he or AIVIS gave the clear. There would be maneuvers, he warned, that would throw them around like dolls if they were not secured.

Then Robinton leaned back and let the implant activate, and a countdown softly played through the ship.

_Ten._

_Nine._

_Eight._

_Seven._

_Six._

_Five._

_Four._

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

_Zero—_

Vision whiteout, and a rising joyful song as they dove through. He was _flying!_

The first few exits he ignored, having explored them previously to no avail. Then the mapped system came up, and he plunged into it without hesitation or qualm, and exercised maneuvers as if he were doing a gleeful somersault, then squirted off in another direction like a pinched melon seed while AIVAS scanned the system for changes.

Lytol looked green around the edges. Brekke endured the gees resolutely, with a flat expression.

Robinton took an exultant breath, and said, trying to keep some of the joy out of his voice, “Changes, AIVAS?” The words still wobbled with a hidden laugh.

“None.”

“Then let’s go return our silver to the Hold’s table, shall we?” Robinton said, and swung them around again.

Robinton inched close to one edge of the wormhole, and got their rear airlock aligned nicely at the point he’d stolen the buoy from to begin with, and was extraordinarily pleased with his effort. He gave an okay for those transporting the buoy to the airlock to move around.

A few minutes later, there was a scratching at the door.

“Come in,” Robinton said.

Piemur poked his head in. “Jancis says there’s a problem.”

“What sort of problem?” Robinton said, frowning.

“Well, she was able to put the buoy back together before we jumped, and AIVAS said it was working, but…now it’s broken.”

“How?”

“Uh, it caught on fire,” Piemur said.

Robinton chewed on his lower lip, then reluctantly detached himself from the pilot chair, unstrapped himself, and floated around. “I assume the fire’s out, now?”

“Yes. Swift is helping Jancis suck up the foam with some sort of stick-thing AIVAS said to use.”

“How did this fire happen?”

Piemur hesitated, and AIVAS answered. “We believe the exposure to an oxygenated environment might have eroded some of the seals just enough that they did not fully shield the device from the wormhole transit when Jancis reassembled it, and left a pinhole. A battery overloaded.”

So now they had a broken buoy.

Exhaustion from the wormhole jump swamped Robinton, made it harder to think. Eventually he threw up his hands and said, “Fine! We’ll take it with us to Beta Colony. Offer to ferry a replacement back here when we return. Go back and help them do whatever still needs to be done, Piemur.”

The Journeyman left, closing the door behind him.

Then he rotated and flipped around so he was facing Brekke and Lytol, and pulled himself back into his seat. “I am going to get us started towards the other wormhole. Then, I am going to go to sleep. Next wormhole jump is in about sixteen hours.”

#

The next few jumps were uneventful and boring. Buoys bracketed each end of the wormholes, so they were never quite in unexplored systems again, but there were no other signs of life that AIVAS could locate as they streaked across systems from one wormhole to another.

Then, with Menolly on one side of him, and Jancis on the other, Robinton exited the wormhole into an armada.

Three dreadnoughts.

Scout ships.

Skirmishers.

Fast-couriers.

Their class, names, designations zipped by in his mind’s eye, and Robinton, driven by a good sense of self-preservation and some excellently-made Eridani engines, practically made the Mastersinger Merelan do a backflip right back towards the wormhole. Gees rougher than the ones experienced before pressed them all in their seats.

Then AIVAS said, _Abort._

“What?” Robinton breathed, his eyes huge.

_None of them are powered up. They’re decommissioned. This is a graveyard._ The mental words were sent and received faster than verbal, and Robinton was able to change course again, so they didn’t enter the wormhole.

“Will you look at that?” Jancis said, as the view in the screen rotated the defunct armada back into her vision. She hadn’t seen it the first time, didn’t have AIVAS putting the images directly into her mind.

“Oh, I looked all right,” Robinton said. “AIVAS says they’re dead, but…”

AIVAS, busy pinging objects and sorting data, didn’t reply directly, but focused on trying to extract anything he could from them.

Robinton, straining his ears, _heard_ some of the pre-recorded com chatter.

_Beta Colony * Beta Colony * Beta Colony_ something sent like a pulsing heartbeat.

Lanes of invisible light sorted the dark ships into rows, highlighted a space where he might park the Mastersinger Merelan amongst the other corpses. He rejected that notion.

_Now, THIS little shuttle hasn’t been scrubbed,_ AIVAS reported smugly, and a listing of files streamed across Robinton’s mind as he copied them into the ship’s storage. Robinton flicked a file open—

—and was immediately subjected to a video of a young woman with nothing but a sarong around her hips kneeling before a woman…woman? Man? Woman? _Both?_...undoing _their_ sarong.

_Oh, yes, a good deal of this seems to be porn, not government secrets, probably why it was overlooked during decommissioning. We can learn from it nonetheless,_ AIVAS assured him. _We have nearly an exabyte here._

Robinton closed the video and sat there for a moment, not even daring to _think_ about all those files streaming past in case one opened up again, and was acutely aware of the two women on either side of him.

They, completely oblivious to the cache AIVAS had found, were pointing at the warships and speculating on what the differences between them were.

Suddenly, a yell erupted from the direction of the lounge. “SWIFT! What _did you do?!”_ Piemur accused.

Robinton immediately knew Piemur, not Swift, had done “it”, had been working at the comconsole, seen new files, and had opened one, and was deflecting blame on another Harper just as he had as a little Apprentice.

Jancis turned. “What’s wrong? Can I move yet?”

AIVAS said, “We’ve downloaded a cache of Betan cultural videos. Your husband already noticed and opened one, and seems to be shocked, but he is not harmed. No more than the Harper was.”

_You_ had _to mention that,_ Robinton said, with a sigh.

_I did warn you preemptively about culture clashes,_ AIVAS said, most smugly. _Perhaps it is time to revisit that training. Give a speech to your crew about tolerance._

Jancis began to finger the straps.

“Stay here, please, Master Jancis,” Robinton said. “It’s still possible I may have to maneuver suddenly. Piemur will just have to deal with…with…hermaphrodites, for the moment.”

The most bizarre of looks were levied on him by both women.

AIVAS directed Robinton further into the system, so he could track down and attempt to download more databases from fainter signals. Unfortunately, AIVAS seemed to keep coming up blank; breaking into databases, and finding nothing there, not even scraps that could be reconstructed.

Then, Robinton and AIVAS noticed a noisy set of signals from a dark ship at the same time; it was some sort of guard, coming out of torpor.

_Our idling triggered it,_ AIVAS said. _It’s supposed to let travelers pass, but aggress thieves._

He didn’t care _what_ triggered it; Robinton locked onto the next wormhole—a mere half-hour transit—and poured on speed.

_Good, we’re outrunning it,_ AIVAS said.

Robinton felt very much like a thief, running away from this guard, and wondered what they could do if AIVAS was wrong and it caught them anyway. “What if it wants its videos back?” Robinton asked hopefully. “Can we give them to it?”

AIVAS actually laughed out loud over the speakers, something nobody had ever heard the AIVAS do before.

Eventually he said to Robinton, _I suppose if you re-transmit an exabyte of videos to it, it’ll eventually overflow its buffer…_

Robinton didn’t know what that meant, but then they entered the wormhole, and he was too busy to care.

#

Two jumps so close together, with no downtime to rest due to the graveyard guard-ship, had Robinton staggering to his room to collapse and sleep.

#

When Robinton awoke, and floated groggily to the galley for food, the lounge was completely empty. _Where is everyone?_ It wasn’t quite the time they considered “night”.

_Researching Betan culture,_ AIVAS said.

_Oh?_ Robinton asked. _Did we find songs? Databanks?_

Silence.

More silence.

Which harmonized with silence.

_I see._ Robinton uncharacteristically fidgeted. _I suppose Piemur and Jancis were hoping for a child._ _Although I’m not sure where we’d put it…_

Robinton considered the situation some more. _Did everyone simply go to their quarters?_

AIVAS said, _I don’t think they entirely understand yet how exhausting a double wormhole jump is for you. I believe they thought you were leading by example, retreating to your private room._

He felt a slew of conflicted feelings battle, and _almost_ responded in response to that, but realized, _You’re playing with me!_

_Only a little, Harper._

But “only a little” was still a new development for AIVAS.

Taking his food and a bulb of water with him back to his room, Robinton shut the door and found a comfortable position to float in. _What I_ needed _was something that’d inform my interactions with these people. Not voyeurism._

_Intimate interactions are interactions,_ AIVAS pointed out.

_I mean politics_ , Robinton said bluntly.

_Leadership of a Weyr is determined by who flies the queen_ , AIVAS said patiently _._

_That’s dragonlust._

_I’ve spoken to a few riders, and they assure me there’s human lust, too._ _Either way, it’s still politics. And Holds form relationships through a ritual sexual alliance called “marriage”._

Robinton chewed his food in irritation, hardly tasting it. _You’re playing with me again._

_No. I’m leading you down a corridor you don’t want to go down._

_Why?_

_Because as leader of this crew, you are uniquely positioned to order everyone to behave some way…while completely failing to take your own advice. And this mission succeeds or fails on your shoulders._ A pause. _Here’s something interesting: the Betans seem to encode their relationship status in earrings. Men, women, and herms wear these earrings._

Robinton thought about the hermaphrodite he had a glimpse of, then shook his head to knock the thought away.

_You’re an incorrigible flirt, Harper. On Pern, you know how to toe the line between flattery and fun, without making it so serious some Lord will challenge you to a duel. But imagine you are on Beta Colony, and you cannot read their earrings. Might you flirt with someone whose earring status says they are in a committed relationship, and not looking? Out of ignorance of what the earrings mean? And then insult that person, with your vulgar, Pernese habits? Or alarm them with your obvious willingness to cross boundaries they stated clearly by the customs of their culture?_

_How do you know about these earrings?_

_Because the videos with plots frequently revolve around the earring code. Much like the stories of Pern revolve around marriage alliances, or being ravished by a dragonrider._ A pause. _Or the apprentice being ravished by his Master._

Robinton made a low sound of warning.

AIVAS ignored it. _We also learned that Beta Colony has a fully-functional hermaphrodite sex, that can sire or bear children. Do you know the proper address for one?_

“Clearly I don’t,” he said, then stuffed more food in his mouth.

_You’d call a man a “gentleman”, but a hermaphrodite “honorable herm”. Again, learned from one of those videos._

…That _was_ useful information to know, he had to admit.

AIVAS said, _I can parse all these videos and generate statistics and trends and feed you crumbs of cultural information, extracted from context. But that won’t help_ you _understand. Or come to terms with your own biases and resistances. You’re an incredibly social person, and your understanding of human nature is better than mine. You will see things I may assign the wrong priority to._

That was probably true. He _was_ going to have to look through this, be unsettled by this, wouldn’t he?

_Do you want me to curate for you? So you’re not exposed to anything too shocking to your sensibilities?_

How _insulting_. What was he, a child to be coddled?

AIVAS wisely didn’t answer that.

So Robinton kicked off a wall, and pulled himself over to the comconsole.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robinton watches a particularly bad and factually wrong character assassination.

* * *

**Chapter Four**

To have a meeting, one must have an agenda. To have an agenda, one must know what topics were of interest to the individuals participating, or the mission’s overall goals.

But that required him going around and asking people to their faces. Lytol, he could manage. And Tuck. Swift and Piemur he could _order_ to report—although there would be much awkwardness around.

Except then there was Jancis. Who was married. And Brekke. Who had been shy even as a queenrider. And _Menolly_.

Robinton got around this—he thought—by asking AIVAS to compile an anonymous list from everyone who had watched the Betan Cultural Videos about questions they had, or things they noticed (such as the earring custom), so he could get an idea of topics important to his crew.

Now Robinton had to deal with the _results_ of that questionnaire. Such as the one in Masterharper-eyes-only drumcode, that only his direct Journeymen and agents like Tuck and Swift knew, that requested _Immediate Evacuation via Green Dragon to the Orb of Unearthly Delights_.

What _was_ the Orb of Unearthly Delights? And given Beta Colony was not Earth, why did they not name it _Orb of Betan Delights_?

AIVAS offered, _It’s where their Sexcrafters practice their trade._

Right. _That_ must have been on videos he hadn’t seen yet.

Robinton snorted. Immediate evacuation by green dragon. To the Sexcraft Hall. He would bet marks that that message had been sent by Tuck. Piemur wasn’t quite brazen enough.

Another one asked, intently, _WHY DO BETANS SHAVE THEIR BODY HAIR?_ Certainly he’d wondered the same thing, but it wasn’t like he had an _answer_ , or was going to include it on the agenda for discussion! And of course, that wasn’t the only hair-related query. More than one person asked, _Why do Betan men have hairy faces?_

Robinton sighed. “AIVAS?”

“Yes?”

“Send whoever asked that question a video of our ancient Earth ancestors with beards. I’m looking for _new_ information, not things we already know about humanity.”

“I’ve sent it.”

“Thank you.”

From someone whom he guessed was Jancis he got a list of technologies she hoped he would negotiate for, or buy. First was artificial gravity for the _Mastersinger Merelan_. That intrigued him; freefall was starting to become more tedious than exciting.

Next was a coffee machine, in the hopes that it could be used for klah. Third was a set of personal comlinks for the entire crew, with extras for passengers, repairs, and other needs. There was an ambiguous request of _implants for female crew_ , followed by a less-ambiguous but surprising request for a _uterine replicator._ There was also a list marked _tools_ , which had stills of various videos where one of the video participants was holding some sort of tool to some sort of object.

Then there was a message concerning their next destination. It said, _Change destination from Beta Colony to Barrayar; they have runners and Lords._

“What’s Barrayar?” Robinton asked.

AIVAS showed him a wormhole map, and highlighted a route that would take them past Beta Colony to Barrayar. The worlds Sergyar and Komarr were marked as being a part of the Barrayan Imperium.

“But _who_ are they?”

_I can only show you the parodies. The video that prompted that suggestion, I believe, is called “The Butcher’s Bride”._ _Would you like to see it?_

Robinton’s original review of some of the material they’d downloaded had left him with a conflicted awareness that he found herms delightful, production value and genre _mattered_ to him (Faranth help him, he had _preferences!),_ the music was often not only alien but _bad_ , and something containing the word “butcher” was likely to be appallingly violent.

_The production values are high,_ AIVAS offered as incentive. _Even if the plot is callow._

“Well then,” Robinton said mockingly, unsure if he were mocking himself, or AIVAS. “If the production values are high, by all means, let us ogle the Butcher’s Bride!”

AIVAS took that as assent.

The video opened up with a Betan woman in a sarong immediately dropping the sarong and wading into an alien pond so she could survey the biology there—in the nude. The video had a close-up shot of a nametag on the sarong, which said _Cockteasia Laysmith_ , and then panned back over to the bathing beauty and her unnaturally red hair and very naked figure. She didn’t have a single freckle, which struck Robinton as odd, since in his experiences redheads were nothing _but_ freckles.

As the Lady Laysmith bathed (or surveyed the marine biology, which looked a lot like bathing) a space shuttle landed one clearing over. Somehow, this did not alert the woman at all.

The shuttle’s door opened, and down the ramp came an ugly, hatchet-faced man riding a glossy runnerbeast. The poor beast, to Robinton’s inexpert eye, was of inferior runner stock. 

Pausing the video, he asked, “…do they _really_ take their runners onto their space shuttles?”

AIVAS hesitated. “It seems unlikely…horses would not be any use in space and it’s much easier to transport the genetic material instead of the entire horse, but then, I expect Pern to transport dragons via ships in the future, and that will look equally opaque to outsiders…” AIVAS’s invisible shrug was palpable.

“Hmm. Do you think they chose a poorly-conformed runner to underline this character’s obvious villainy…or do they simply not know that beast has back problems?”

“I couldn’t say, Harper.”

“Fair enough.” Robinton continued watching the video.

The man riding the runner had very shiny boots, and a very green uniform, which had braiding along the shoulders and seams that was strongly reminiscent of the rank knots of a Lord, Dragonrider, or Crafter. As the horse-riding villain rode poorly towards the pond—his seat was _atrocious_ —another close-up zoomed in on his nametag, which said, _Karl Gochokeonit, the Butcher_. A subtitle proclaimed he was a Gor Lord, from Bare-all-there.

The Gor Lord rode his runner, bouncing painfully the entire way, over to the pond, and dismounted, to Robinton’s great relief and empathy for both actor and beast. Lady Laysmith seemed to be profoundly deaf, and stood in the pond, rubbing seaweed over her breasts. Robinton didn’t ask how one found seaweed in a small forest pond, but did consider that alien seaweed might perhaps render one deaf, if you were not aware of those properties, and went about swimming in it and rubbing it on yourself. Clearly the writers of the video did not think highly of her intelligence.

Or perhaps the audience’s intelligence.

Then Lord Karl took a stunner from his pocket, shot Lady Laysmith in the back, and proceeded to drag her naked body over to his runner. He lifted her onto it, remounted, and rode his beast back to the ship and up the ramp, jolting all the way. Perhaps the redheaded woman was immune to freckles, but she definitely would sport an array of bruises after _that_ ride.

There was a montage of scenes within the spaceship; all the guardsmen in the space ship seemed to run about with runners following them, to the point that Robinton wondered if the people of Barrayar Impressed to runners. (Or was it simply an extended joke?)

Bored, Robinton sped the video up, until the Gor Lord and Lady Laysmith were alone again. The room they were in was surprisingly well-appointed, and resembled in some ways the private quarters of a Lord Holder. The Gor Lord tried to intimidate her psychologically in an inept offer of marriage (the video paused to zoom in on her earrings, and AIVAS said they proclaimed she was not looking, and that the Gor Lord’s offer was inappropriate), but due to her superior Betan knowledge of psychology, she tamed the brute Lord for her own wily purposes, which somehow involved taking his pants off. At that point, Robinton finally understood why they’d paired the hatchet-faced actor with the redhead. He clearly took after his runner in certain departments.

“So… _this_ is the world Lytol wants to go to?” Robinton asked, disappointed. He also wondered about Lytol’s tastes, but tried to wave that thought away as unfair of him. Lytol had been a brownrider; for all Robinton knew, he wanted to be Lady Laysmith with a pair of shiny boots before him, instead of imagining himself as Lord Karl.

_Yes,_ AIVAS said, _But this seems both like a parody, and propaganda._ _However, statistically, most of the Barrayar-inspired parodies have castles or holds that resemble Pernese ones. Runners are prominent, even if the emotional bond isn’t as deep as the one a dragonman has with his dragon, and the society seems to be a patriarchy, with most women taking roles as mothers, wives, and daughters._

“He _could_ have stayed home,” Robinton muttered. “He _asked_ to come along.” Why explore space if the first thing you were going to do was find something that resembled what you’d just left behind? He sighed.

Waving the video away because it did nothing for him now that it’d answered his question of _Why Barrayar_ , Robinton went back to the list.

Similar to the list of tools, there was a list of musical instruments with screenshots. And another with Healer resources. Robinton suspected the three women in the crew had gotten together and shared ideas. Robinton reflected that he loved woman subordinates; they actually _did their work diligently_ , instead of playing around. _Tuck_ , for example…ah, but Tuck had always been like that. Playing around and avoiding work until the chips were down, then going into overdrive.

Elsewhere in his list, a video was linked, with a note saying it suggested Betans used a system of voting to govern themselves. Their Lord Holder—or rather, a High Lord Holder that ruled the entire _planet_ —was even voted in. This pleased Robinton, and was a vote—heh— _for_ visiting the Betans and against the Barrayarans. Not that a Crafthall with its voting population of Masters couldn’t get bogged down, but at least when something truly went off the rails all you had to do is vote someone else in. No blood feuds, no assassinations, no younger siblings of the Blood trying to take over out of nowhere…it was a much duller system, to the benefit of most.

Robinton compiled summaries of all of this into an agenda. Things they had to buy, places they would (not) go, the physical habits of Betans…he probably needed to discuss hermaphrodites specifically. It was curious that nobody had brought that up; _he_ couldn’t keep his eyes off of them when they appeared in videos.

_That may be an artefact of your own sexuality_ , AIVAS commented.

Robinton ignored him, and added, _discussion of customs, especially with Tuck and Swift_. If he _could_ , he’d likely ask them to go undercover right away once they arrived at Beta Colony. Ah! _That_ was where the questions about hair had come from. Luckily, it was common enough for Betans to go bare-faced that naturally bare-faced Pernese men would not be conspicuous. The rest of their hair—he thought he’d leave that to them. Snapping his fingers suddenly, Robinton added _haircuts_ to the list. Betan styles were different than Pernese.

Then he looked at his list, and looked at his closed door. _AIVAS?_

_Will fifteen minutes do?_

Robinton hadn’t even asked, but clearly the AI had understood. _Yes, and thank you._

#

When everyone was bundled into the lounge, floating around, Robinton emerged from his room and joined them. “Glad you could be here on such short notice,” he joked.

An obliging laugh or two.

“So, as you all found out, we did find some data recently…just not the sort I was _expecting_ …”

Genuine laughs this time, some nervous.

“And I commend you all for throwing yourselves into the threadfall feet-first so we could wrest _some_ information from that extravagant display of flesh.”

“Aw, I would have done it anyway, no need for an award,” Tuck said, in a flat Betan accent, instead of a lilting Pernese one.

Robinton kept talking. “—Unfortunately, I have to _deny_ that request for emergency evacuation via green dragon to the Sexcrafter’s Hall, also known as the Orb of Unearthly Delights. We do not have any green dragons available to fly right now.”

“You actually _asked_ that?” Menolly chortled to Tuck.

He smiled at her in a way that made Robinton wonder about things that had nothing to do with the meeting. Such as, _Had Menolly been the one to write that?_ And, _Are they close enough to joke about these things together?_

So Robinton forged forward. “Also, be aware that the Masterharper’s drumcode is trivial to decode in a technological society; do not use it going forward.”

“Told you it wouldn’t work,” Piemur said to Tuck.

“Then drum something better.”

“I’m trying! AIVAS keeps cracking them!”

Robinton cleared his throat. “I have received several inventories of things you would like to buy; unfortunately until we are able to make some trades of what we have, or for those of us with Crafts, figure out how to capitalize them on the galactic market, we will have to put that off. 

“However, Brekke, I’d like you to maintain a list going forward of Healer supplies that you would like to obtain. One list of consumables, one list of equipment. Prioritize by musts, needs, and would-likes.

“Master Jancis, same for any technology. I do think we should strive to equip this ship with artificial gravity, if the retrofit is possible. Please continue working with AIVAS on projects as needed, and tap Journeyman Piemur as an extra set of hands.”

Piemur wiggled his fingers, not-quite-lasciviously.

“Lytol, think about the supplies this ship will need, and how we may obtain them from Beta Colony. We are not yet over-extended, but something could happen, and ship supplies will get first priority budget-wise.”

Lytol said, “I will do that. But I think we should also look beyond Beta Colony. There’s other worlds out there.”

“Such as?”

“Barrayar would be my first choice, so far.” Lytol grimaced. “Given the _strange_ quality of information we have.”

“Ah, the world where they ride runners indoors, and shoot unarmed women in the back.”

“So you’ve heard of the Time of Isolation?”

“No, I must have missed that part.”

Brekke, surprisingly, cut in. “Like Pern, they were cut off from the galaxy for several hundred turns. Not as many as us, but enough. They didn’t have any Landing or AIVAS, but once they were back in contact with the rest of the galaxy, started picking up new technology. Like us.”

Lytol said, “They’re about a hundred or so turns ahead of us in acclimating.”

Robinton blinked.

“Perhaps we can learn from them, and whatever mistakes they may have made with their holds when modernizing.”

That was a much better reason for visiting there than Robinton had thought. He felt a moment of shame that he’d imagined Lytol’s—and apparently Brekke’s—motivations so shallow. “Interesting.” He pondered for a moment. “Swift?”

Swift looked surprised to be addressed. “Yes, Master?”

“Why don’t you focus on learning about Barrayan culture, while Tuck focuses on Betan. You can ride, right?”

The Journeyman nodded.

“Good.” He looked at the others. “Anyone who has delved into the Barrayaran-themed videos, bring your insights to Swift, or tell him which videos to watch.”

The young man turned scarlet.

“Hopefully,” Robinton said, “Once we reach Beta colony, we’ll be able to acquire _genuine_ cultural databases.”

_“I_ like the ones we have,” Tuck said, still maintaining his Betan accent. Robinton had to wonder how many videos he had watched in order to determine how the accent worked.

_“You’re_ angling for an assignment where you work undercover at the Orb of Unearthly Delights,” Robinton said pointedly.

Tuck’s mouth hung open for a second. “I hadn’t even considered that. Thanks for the idea!”

“—as a hermaphrodite,” Robinton added.

Several people in the room laughed.

Menolly wasn’t one of them. She said, “Wait. You mentioned them before, but didn’t elaborate.”

That was as good of a segue as any. Robinton said, “For those of you who didn’t notice it yet, the Betans have three sexes. Man, woman, and hermaphrodite. Please, be polite, no matter how foreign the concept is to you. Men are gentlemen, women are ladies, hermaphrodites are honorable herms.”

“I wonder how _that_ happened,” Jancis said.

“The same way dragons happened, I expect,” Robinton said. “Genetic manipulation.”

Brekke said, “I wonder if a dragon would Impress a hermaphrodite…”

_That_ was a fascinating question that visibly flickered across several faces.

Menolly said, “Some already think women riders are practically hermaphrodites, so to take a shot in the dark—yes? But it wouldn’t be fun for them. The rider, that is.”

Brekke flickered a look at Menolly, but didn’t seem offended a Harper was speaking about dragons, mostly pensive. “Mirrim would agree.” Her foster-daughter had Impressed green Path, as the only non-queen female rider in centuries.

“We’re _not_ bringing hermaphrodites home to the Hatching Grounds,” Lytol said. The tic in his face started to jump in agitation.

“But what if they were Searched?” Menolly pressed.

Tuck said, drolly, “Then we’d have that green-dragon evacuation to the Orb.”

Robinton refrained from rolling his eyes, but felt this discussion was pointless, as only a Weyrleader could make such a decision, and he didn’t see the situation coming up anytime soon. Intergalactic Search indeed. “The only Hatchings we’re attending out here is _possibly_ firelizard hatchings—“ he paused. “Jancis, make a note: some machine to keep a bucket of sand at the right temperature.”

“I should have thought of that,” Menolly said, visibly cursing herself.

Robinton said, “Anyway, a firelizard will Impress anyone who stuffs its face. I think that should be our only concern. Leave everything else to the Weyrs, if it ever becomes relevant.”

Speculation went on in minds, but at least stopped being voiced.

Moving on, Robinton said, “I would like anyone who is delving into these videos to note down anything related to trade or currency—“

AIVAS interjected, “The Betan currency is called the ‘dollar’.”

“—as that seems an area where we still have to learn a lot about. Especially since, unlike Tuck, we’re not _all_ going to Apprentice ourselves to the Orb.”

Glances at Tuck to see how he was taking the teasing. He simply smiled back.

And that seemed to be it for Robinton’s agenda. There was little they could do until they _actually_ came in contact with outsiders.

“Is there anything anyone wants to talk about that has not yet been covered?” Robinton asked.

Headshakes.

Lytol said, “Can I speak to you privately?”

“Of course. Anyone else?”

Nobody responded.

Robinton said, “It’ll take us twenty hours to the next wormhole. After we pass through it, we will be one jump away from Beta Colony. At that time, we will pause to prepare, until I feel we are ready to introduce ourselves. If any of you feel like you are _not_ ready or need more time, you _must_ let me know.”

Silence, and nods.

Robinton turned to Lytol. “In my quarters?” And he pushed himself off in that direction.

Extending a foot against a bolted-down chair, Lytol launched himself after Robinton.

#

“Harper, did you know those videos are accessible to everybody?”

“Mmm. Yes.”

Lytol stared at him, the tic in his cheek twitching.

“Who would I restrict? The youngest? The youngest one here is attempting to become a father. The junior-most? Swift will be out on his own on a foreign planet soon enough, to succeed or fail by his own skills. Seeing a bit of flesh in a database is the _least_ of his concerns. Or should we restrict anyone who isn’t a Master? There’s more Masters than not, here.”

A frown tugged Lytol’s mouth down. His gaze said, _You know what I mean._

The women, of course. Never mind that one had been a queenrider, and could still Hear All Dragons, or that the other one had ten randy firelizards flying every each way at the drop of a hat. Or that the last was actively trying to become a mother.

“I could restrict _your_ access, if you are bothered by having it,” Robinton suggested.

Lytol jerked back, red spots appearing in his cheeks. “So you’re not bothered, at all?”

“Of course I am. I wish we had better _information_ to work with, not prurient fantasies we have to dissect of scraps of data.”

“I would not let _my_ daughters see this.”

Robinton refrained from replying immediately; Lytol’s daughters had been murdered by Fax, and the man rarely spoke of them. _“…you_ suggested we go to Barrayar. If ‘the Butcher’s Bride’ disturbs you—why?”

“The video was propaganda,” Lytol said. “I’ve seen it often enough, coming from your Hall. I can look beyond it.”

Now it was time for Robinton to jerk back slightly.

“But not everyone can. Have you really _looked_ through that database?”

“I’ve looked enough,” Robinton said neutrally. “But it’s not my business to shepherd three adult Craftmasters. I trust they can all decipher fantasy from reality.”

_I think Lytol, like you, is struggling somewhat with understanding his sexuality_ , AIVAS suggested.

Robinton was surprised; AIVAS never commented on other people, unless Robinton asked a direct question. He seemed to know much about them, but was reluctant to broach privacy.

Rubbing his face, Robinton pushed himself a bit back, so they weren’t floating so directly face-to-face. Then he steeled his nerve and said, “You know why I brought up hermaphrodites in the meeting?”

“To remind us to be diplomatic, _Master Diplomat_.”

“Yes, but also because I keep thinking of them in odd moments.” His voice went very bland. “It’s somewhat like discovering you fancy other men when you’d never realized that was even _possible_ before. Disturbing, intrusive.”

Lytol blinked, then he said, “Exactly. Which is why—“

_“—everyone_ should have access,” Robinton said. “I can’t examine my bias, or feelings, or…desires,” and he flipped a hand as if throwing the word away, “—without exposure. I can’t grow, when my information is constrained. How do you get beyond that primitive, innate disgust of anything new and strange and allow logic to rise up in its place if you don’t allow yourself time to gather information, first?”

Lytol opened and closed his mouth.

“Imagine,” Robinton said in a bit of inspiration, “If someone had a _safer_ medium to explore thoughts through in the wake of living through a dragon flying nearby. Instead of having to, say, chase dragonriders in order to get that feeling again. Perhaps the Betans realize this, that safe educational environments are necessary for growth, and that is where this material is coming from.” Would Lytol understand this perspective?

Robinton hoped so. Dragonlust could be sudden, rough, and pair individuals with people they wouldn’t otherwise couple with. It wasn’t uncommon for men and women in the weyr alike to have some trouble coping with the aftermath. Lytol, as a brown rider, would have experienced sudden wild encounters himself.

Lytol was quiet for a moment. “You’re not going to change your mind, are you?”

“You haven’t given me good reason to. I’ve had my own turmoil, and I’m growing from it. I don’t see why the individuals in question, who have all shown great persistence in the face of adversary, would not also learn and grow.”

Lytol didn’t respond.

Robinton said, “Perhaps look at something _other_ than Barrayan kidnapping-fantasies.” He could certainly see how that might set off bad reactions in a man who’d lived under the hand of Fax and had his family murdered.

“Are you going to send me recommendations?” Lytol said with something that tried to be a sneer, but wasn’t, quite.

“Would you even look at them, if I did?” Robinton asked, and rolled his eyes.

Lytol backed away from him, that half-sneer still on his scarred face, and saw himself out of Robinton’s quarters.

_Well, that was peculiar_ , Robinton said to AIVAS.

_Will you be sending him recommendations?_

Robinton didn’t answer.

#

“Eh, ah, oh, oo, ee—“ Tuck, with his false Betan twang, said.

“Eh, ah, oh, oo, ee—“ Menolly replied.

Robinton pulled himself down the lower corridor, and poked his head in the open door. “New song?” he asked Menolly.

“I’m learning Betan vowels,” she responded with a smile, and with a mild Betan accent. Tuck was in the room with her, hanging upside down, sitting tailor’s style on the ceiling.

“I was hoping for a new song,” Robinton said.

“It would be one _weird_ song,” Menolly said with a laugh. “Given the events of the past few weeks. _Weeeird.”_

It occurred to Robinton that he hadn’t composed _anything_ since he woke up direly thin with an AI in his head. A sudden fear overtook him: had becoming a jump pilot stolen his ability to _create?_

_Unlikely,_ AIVAS soothed. _You’ve been incredibly busy._

Yes, but…

Hadn’t he promised himself he’d collaborate with Menolly? “Would you like to write a song together?” Robinton asked.

Tuck said, “Are you really stealing my Betan-talking partner?”

“If she wants to be stolen, yes.”

“But then I’ll have to go talk Barrayan with Swift. It hurts my throat, it’s growly.”

“There’s always Lytol,” Robinton suggested. “He’s learning Greek. And Russian.”

“Can’t afford the time. I’m good at accents, even dialects, but the whole _other language_ bit gets me.” He groaned. “There’s so much to learn! And I have to shave my _balls_.” His Betan twanged hard on the word.

Menolly laughed at this unexpected declaration.

“I can’t help you with that,” Robinton declared. “But we _can_ give you privacy.”

“Well I’m not going to do it in Menolly’s quarters. That would be rude. Plus, with freefall, I need some suction or we’ll all get hairs in our teeth.”

“Tuck,” Piemur said from down the hallway. “You talk about the _weirdest_ shit.”

“What, you want my hairs in your teeth?”

Piemur muttered something unintelligible that seemed to involve Jancis.

Menolly dissolved into giggles.

Robinton said, “My dear Master Menolly, how do you feel about escaping these uncouth heathens?” He reached into her room and took her gently by the foot. When she didn’t resist, and just continued to giggle, he experimented to see if he could drag her in freefall down the hall by her foot.

Turns out he could, although he took pity on her and got her turned upright so they could float up to the second floor. She wiped her tearing eyes to clear them of blinding moisture that wouldn’t fall without gravity, and little droplets went flying off like tiny crystals.

When they were in his quarters and out of hearing, Robinton said, “Do I need to have words with him?”

“Who, Tuck? Why?”

“As Jancis might say…he has a few screws loose. It’s not obvious in short exposures, but…he’s let his guard down these past few sevendays.”

“Oh,” she dismissed. “He’s not bad. He’s witty and funny. Sailors are much more crude, without the wit to pull it off. Tuck’s a well-bred Lord in comparison.”

Robinton made a strangled sound, but managed not to articulate his response to _that_.

She looked around the room. “It always strikes me that there’s nothing in here. I’m used to your office being _lived_ in.”

“So am I, but I’d also like to continue to live, so,” he shrugged. Stowing things was second nature to everyone, now. “Unrelated, has Lytol said anything to you, or the other ladies, about anything?”

“No…why?”

“He’s been having paternal urges. In, I suspect, an unwanted way given all of you are Masters of your respective Crafts. Let me know if it surfaces or is a problem.”

“Hmm. No, he’s been fine. He stays in his room most of the day, practicing languages with AIVAS.”

Robinton thanked the heavens for small favors. Or perhaps Lytol had listened to him.

Menolly said, “I think we may need to incorporate electronics into our music.”

He blinked.

“I’ve been talking to AIVAS, and he said playing for Gathers does happen in other societies, but unless you have a reputation—which we won’t, on Beta Colony—it does not pay well. To gain a reputation with music among galactics, however, you can record a performance once, then sell that recording many times to everyone with a comconsole. Basically, the recording goes on bringing marks to the Hall passively without anyone actively performing it in real-time, while you work on creating other songs that you can repeat the process with.”

“Creating a repertoire,” Robinton said. “But to sell, not play at Gathers.” Composers did that, but offloaded the “copying” to instrumentalists who traveled and performed.

She nodded. “I don’t see why we couldn’t do this, although AIVAS warned that we will be competing with the Harpers of multiple worlds, and may not receive the same reception among galactics as we do on Pern. Our instruments could be too foreign, too conservative, or too obscurely folk. We may be able to gain traction with a niche of people—but not in the same way a good ballad can travel across Pern. AIVAS says songs are low-margin goods in a society that can copy a file as easily as blinking. You have to sell a great deal of them to support a business. Court popularity.”

Robinton’s mouth twitched in a smile. The Popular Harper versus the Harper’s Harper was a long, tired debate in the Hall, with the latter sneering at the former, and, often, being silently jealous at the acclaim so-called “simpler” pieces got.

“AIVAS says a single set of electronic instruments can produce, via computer manipulation, more auditory variety than an entire Hall of instruments.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me this, AIVAS?” Robinton asked.

“The information was already in my databanks, Harper, and I expected if it were an aesthetic Pernese wanted, you would find it yourselves. That several people did read those files, and didn’t act on them, spoke to me that there wasn’t much cultural interest. There’s also a technology gap to be traversed, between those with access to Landing and those who do not.”

Menolly said, “I realize any income we get has to be portioned out wisely. But a small studio with galactic electronic instruments may allow our income to snowball, if I have success composing to galactic tastes.”

AIVAS said, “If someone is willing to double up and utilize both bunks, you may be able to convert one of the rooms into a studio.”

Robinton had stocked the ship assuming that he would not have much time for actual music, their diplomatic functions superseding the musical, except where trade in fine goods and instruments helped keep their expedition going. But he had not counted on songs that could be sold like drums at a Gather by other people, while the maker remained at the Hall, continuing their work. “Yes, we can pursue that. With a ship full of Harpers, it would be silly not to.”

She grinned.

AIVAS spoke again. “I do have a music synthesizer in my databanks, although we are missing the input devices that are used with such things. You can improvise with the comconsole input. Would you like me to show you both what it offers?”

“Absolutely,” Robinton declared.

There was only one chair bolted down before the comconsole desk. Menolly tried to offer it to him, but he declined. “You will be the primary composer; I could be called off anywhere. Let’s get you sorted first.” He really just wanted to spend time with her; their shared love of music was an excuse, not a goal.

Floating behind her with his fingers laced around the back of the seat to keep himself in place, Robinton watched over her shoulder as Menolly took to all the windows and screens and virtual knobs faster than he could follow. AIVAS piped the music through the room’s speakers, a simple rendition of Menolly’s firelizard song, as played on a pipe.

“If we get music-specific hardware, this will sound better,” AIVAS promised. “I’m afraid ship speakers were not meant for composers.”

Menolly switched the “instrument” in a list, and suddenly it was her firelizard song…

…as if quacked by waterfowl.

Robinton laughed hard enough at the unexpected convergence of animal sounds and song that he began to float away. Menolly flapped a hand at AIVAS—or rather his speaker—and cried, “Put it on the ship! Put it on the ship!”

AIVAS did.

Robinton was aware in his mind’s eye of _reactions_ from the crew, and that AIVAS deadpanned, “Menolly wanted to share her newest creation.”

“AIVAS just blamed you,” he chuckled at Menolly.

“This program is too powerful for me,” Menolly said dramatically. “I may do irreparable harm!” Which apparently was enough to make her cackle in delight.

Shoving himself off of the wall, Robinton floated back to Menolly, intending to make a suggestion, and their eyes met.

That set them both off again.

Then Robinton managed to change the instrument to something called an “elephant” which sounded like a wher afflicted by diarrhea, and laughed himself into a corner of the room.

“Why didn’t you show this to us before?” Menolly asked, in a squeaky, laughter-constrained voice.

“I had no idea that this would be the result,” AIVAS replied.

“Oh, if I had this at the Hall,” Robinton said, once again pushing himself off the wall back towards Menolly. “I could prank Domick _—can you imagine the look on his face?!“_

This set Menolly off again, and _then_ , pausing to wipe tears away, she set to recreating one of Domick’s complex symphonies…as if uttered by an orchestra of livestock.

“Instant winner,” Robinton proclaimed. “I dare you—I _dare_ you—to finish that and try to sell it to galactics.”

“But what if they like it?!” she cried in dismay and delight.

“Then we collect our funds, apologize profusely to Domick, and bring him a galactic gift when we return home.”

Her conscience soothed, Menolly bent to transcribing one of Domick’s great works, using only animal sounds.

#

Robinton had no clue if they really _could_ sell such a thing to galactics, but it was a hit among the Pernese, and encouraged spontaneous laughing sing-alongs among the crew, even from the non-Harpers.

#

_Are you ready?_ AIVAS said, a sevenday later, as they idled near the wormhole that would lead them into the solar system of Beta Colony.

Lytol sat in the seat on his left, Menolly in the seat on the right. Both were prepared to act if something came up when he was still piloting.

_No,_ Robinton said. His silly songs with Menolly had acted as a great mood-leavener during the final push to prepare themselves, preventing everyone from stressing right into a breakdown, but had not removed the lambent anticipation, or the tinge of anxiety, or fretful worries. Here and now, it came roiling back again, as they prepared to jump. _But we must go forward anyhow._

He leaned back in his seat, pointed them at the final wormhole.

_Ten._

_Nine._

_Eight._

_Seven._

_Six._

_Five._

_Four._

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

_Zero!_

His vision whited out, and Robinton danced them through the wormhole song joyfully, for even burdened by worries, he couldn’t quite suppress the way such transit thrilled him.

Then they were out, out, out, and he flipped and squirted the other way, dodging a set of buoys that were much larger and much more complicated, and AIVAS was running through all the com chatter.

_Beta Colony * Beta Colony * Beta Colony_ something pulsed.

_We are the Mastersinger Merelan, merchants,_ their own ship sent, along with computer codes that did not make sense to a human mind.

This system _swarmed_ with ships, signals. Big ships, small ships, official ships, private ships. Several other wormholes were highlighted on Robinton’s map; he swung them around and sidled towards it on a trajectory that avoided others until AIVAS was able to establish a connection with some sort of traffic authority and get instructions on how to dock. Betan Cultural Videos implied ships from all over came and went, so it seemed they _should_ be able to dock…

Robinton could have sworn he’d positioned them in a trajectory that politely _wouldn’t_ interfere with other ships, but they were suddenly in the way of an intercept route, so he sped up to get out of their way.

Then a sudden alarm sounded in his mind, and suddenly he felt his mind seize up again, as his altered time-sense triggered outside of the wormhole.

_Weapons systems missing cycle armament Y/N?_

_Ammo bays empty._

_Target locked: no weapons available to fire._

AIVAS said, _We’ve been targeted by an enemy’s battle computers; I don’t know why. Prepare to maneuver. I am still trying to decrypt coms; nobody has responded on the bands I’ve used. Ignore the weapons prompts; we’re unarmed._

_Beta Colony * Beta Colony * Beta Colony_ beat across his mind, a thousand times slower in his ears. 

The time-distortion did not let up; Robinton determined it was so he had _time_ to maneuver as AIVAS had directed.

But _where_ to maneuver? Should he go back through the wormhole? All of these ships had necklin rods, they’d simply follow him, he’d lead them _home_. Unacceptable. But several of the other wormholes had multiple exits; if he were fast enough, he could be in and out, and force whoever was following to examine _all_ exits, a time-wasting endeavor. He could lose any pursuers.

With enhanced speed, he selected a convoluted route deep into the Nexus, one that would have plenty of bolt-holes, and speeded towards it, avoiding other ships. The warships behind him fell further and further behind, until calculations suggested they would no longer intercept unless he stopped.

AIVAS dumped data downloads into various files; Robinton had no idea what they contained or where AIVAS had gotten them. One dump seemed to be a gigantic packet of mail.

 _Should we be stealing their mail?_ Robinton asked worriedly.

_I didn’t know it was mail until I got it. It’s erased._

As good as his word, the packet of mail vanished.

Alas, that would not erase that he’d broken into a mailbox to begin with. Robinton could only imagine what other things AIVAS was perturbing in their urgent need for _information_.

Eventually—but probably quickly considering Robinton’s distorted time-sense—AIVAS reported, _No response on coms, I believe they think we’re hostile and are engaging in a blackout against us. Continue towards the wormhole._

His mind’s eye was still cluttered. _No target, no weapons available to fire_ hung in his vision annoyingly. He looked past it and continued.

The other wormhole was only forty-five minutes away, but in this state of mind, it was an excruciating length of time. He pushed away a small fear that a human mind simply _couldn’t_ exist that long in this state; even a real wormhole only took a few real-time seconds to transverse. Not a near-hour.

Some private civilian ships pinged _The Mastersinger Merlin_ and scooted away worriedly, like fretful herdbeasts. A larger ship, Betan military, changed course, but the calculations still showed Robinton would be through the wormhole before they could intercept. Large ships were, indeed, very slow.

Then, in front of them, one ship, then two, then three ships emerged from the wormhole they were approaching. Also Betan.

Robinton tried to recalculate a different route, once, twice, but between the other ships in local space, and these ones before him, there was no way to avoid interception, should the other ships wish it.

Then something changed, and the basic droning _Beta Colony * Beta Colony * Beta Colony_ throb of simple buoys faded as something more complicated came to life, with real human voices, and eventually Robinton was aware that Lytol, brought up-to-date on what was happening by AIVAS in real-time, was attempting to convince someone—several someones—that that their exit through the wormhole had _not_ been a hostile maneuver, that they’d never _been_ to Beta Colony before, and had transversed a little-known part of the Nexus where pirates, wildcats, or who-knew-what could have lurked—

_I am deeply sorry, Master Robinton,_ AIVAS said.

_Why?_

_I wasn’t aware that maneuver was considered hostile; it was standard practice when I was created, civilian and military. Which might have been a consequence of the Nathi war going on shortly before Pern was colonized._ _I didn’t anticipate being “lazy” around wormholes was considered polite etiquette in non-warring systems._

A pause, Robinton sensed AIVAS giving more information in slow real-time to Lytol. Then to Robinton he said, _Our speed seems greater than it “should” be for our size, contributing to their fear. They believe we are a military scout ship, not a fast-courier. They also misconstrued our delay in accessing coms, and my downloading of appropriate com-protocols…but that mercenary fleet attempting to jam us didn’t help either._

Robinton heard, in slow-motion, that same mercenary fleet trying to explain in a three-way conversation across the coms that their own response as a reaction to a battle they’d recently been through and the feud the other side had sworn against them. They claimed that if _The Mastersinger Merelan_ looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck—

_I would really love to transmit The Firelizard Song, in waterfowl, to them_ , Robinton said tiredly.

AIVAS didn’t reply, or, thankfully, take him literally.

The one good spot was that the Betan military was none too happy with the mercenary fleet threatening what was turning out to be a little merchant from some podunk colony nobody had ever heard of. It was not the reputation that Beta Colony wanted to cultivate.

The bad thing was, the Betan military wanted to board _The Mastersinger Merelan._ Probably to make sure the mercenaries did not know something about them that they didn’t.

Robinton fell out of the time-distortion, and exhaustion cried out in every cell of his body. Ignoring it, he interjected himself into the conversation now that he could, and said, “Hello. Yes, you can board,” just as Lytol was about to put on a Lord Warder persona and refuse. Robinton wondered if you offered boarding parties Benden wine or other refreshments, or if you were simply expected to quake in fear as someone poked around your home, as Apprentices did when a Master came about for inspections.

“Who are you?”

“I am Master Robinton. You were talking to my Second, Lytol, before. I was piloting our ship. In order to facilitate your boarding, should I change course?”

“No. Simply slow your speed, and we will match.”

“Very good. My deepest apologies for all the alarm; I’m afraid our culture is quite different from yours, and this will be a learning experience for both sides. By the way, we have some pets aboard, flying lizards, and they’re excitable but harmless. Somewhat like puppies. Please don’t let them alarm you. Also, please do not harm them; that would cause us considerable distress and may require Healer attention.” He didn’t want to think of what Brekke might do if her firelizard was harmed.

“Thank you for the warning, Mister Robinson,” a woman with a flat Betan accent said.

Robinton blinked, but decided in the interests of diplomacy, not to correct his name, and also in the interests of diplomacy, to slow the ship as he’d promised.

Then he quickly got out of his seat, to brief everyone in person.

#

Robinton and Lytol met the boarding party in the cargo bay. Behind them with clear lines of fire were Tuck and Swift, although Robinton had instructed them to keep their hands away from their stunners, and not to fire unless absolutely provoked. All firelizards had firmly been instructed to stay on the upper level, except for Zair who sat on Robinton’s shoulder as a visual example, but who knew how long that would last.

AIVAS informed them that the Betan Navy shuttle that had been dispatched to them had secured a pressurized conduit between the ships, and that their visitors were coming across without spacesuits.

Then the inner hatch opened, and three Betans floated through, wearing khaki jumpsuits, with stunners at their hips. Two were women, one was a man. Robinton found himself slightly disappointed there was no hermaphrodite.

Their leader was the woman with dark skin and fastidiously braided hair. She introduced herself as Captain Gretchen Hartmann. Unaware or uncaring that this was a first contact scenario from the perspective of the Pernese, she dutifully asked Master Robinton if he were Mister Robinson, and if she had permission to examine his ship.

“I am Robinton,” he said, ticking the _t_ with his teeth a bit more than usual. “My rank is Master, and this ship is called _The Mastersinger Merelan_. Next to me is Lytol, behind me is Master Tuck, and Journeyman Swift. On my shoulder here is my friend Zair,” and he gestured at Zair, who was very politely sitting still, and holding onto Robinton’s ear with one paw. “I would be happy to show you around,” he concluded with as much of a bow as he could do in freefall without floating off in a random direction.

Captain Gretchen Hartmann did not believe in small talk, or in introducing her companions, although their nametags were seen by AIVAS and accordingly would be recorded for the Harper Hall to write ballads about. Robinton floated beside her through the ship, refrained from naming his crew as they peeked out of their quarters, but apologized again for their hectic exit into Betan space. “Our information about the Nexus is quite old, and clearly, out of date. We didn’t intend to make your day exciting.”

Using some sort of device in her hands, she explored the lounge, galley, took a long time viewing the lone coldsleep coffin, peered into the utility room, and finally examined the cockpit for a very long time. Eventually she said, “Do you have any weapons to declare?” while frowning at the cockpit.

“The ship is unarmed. Master Tuck and Journeyman Swift have stunners. The rest of us have nothing more than belt knives for eating with. We’re here to trade, hopefully. Musical instruments and other handmade goods.”

“Do you have identification?”

Robinton thanked AIVAS for disclosing that necessity to them, and pulled out his little card, and handed it to her.

She read it, frowned, and looked him in the face. “Diplomat? You said you were merchants. Do you intend to establish an embassy?”

Robinton chuckled. “One would need funds to do that, Betan dollars I assume. We are merchants first, by necessity, and then we will determine if a formal embassy is in our plans.”

“Why did you break into a communications satellite?”

“My deepest apologies; our com protocols are several hundred years out of date. Since nobody seemed to be communicating in anything as simple as Morse code, I authorized the ship’s computer to download an updated copy of communication protocols from the closest source. Once that happened, we were able to communicate with you, but I believe that process disturbed a mail drop. Once we realized we didn’t get communications protocols from it, but simply communications, we deleted the files.”

“Would you be willing to attest to that under fast-penta?”

Robinton had no idea of what fast-penta was, but didn’t want to show resistance, so he simply said, “Yes,” which seemed to reassure them.

It did not reassure AIVAS. He said, _Fast-penta seems to be a truth drug; someone under the influence of it will spill their deepest secrets. I advise you to avoid it. At least until we establish a registered embassy and you gain diplomatic immunity._

Too late now, but they did not seem inclined to actually procure it just yet.

The Betans poked around a little more, were startled when a rogue green appeared out of _between_ and flew over their heads, but ultimately, to Robinton’s relief, they determined his ship did not pose a threat to Beta Colony.

As they floated back to the airlock, Robinton said, “Would you be able to have your ship forward us instructions on how to dock, or otherwise communicate with your docking authority? I’m afraid we’ve only ever docked at our own facilities, and I would be very grateful for guidance on yours. I would not like another misunderstanding to occur.”

“Yes, of course. We’ll have them contact you immediately.”

“Thank you.”

The Betans went back the way they came, and shortly were gone.

Robinton floated in the cargo bay tapping his fingers against his mouth for a moment, and then declared, “That went well.” He looked at his companions. “Don’t you agree?”

“I was expecting less clothing,” Tuck said.

“And I was expecting a hermaphrodite,” Robinton said. “Alas for both of us.”

Lytol, who knew Robinton’s interest was a bit deeper than a joke, gave Robinton an odd look.

“But it went well,” Robinton said again. “Simply because it could have gone _much_ worse.” He clapped his hands together, then rubbed them thoughtfully. “Let’s go find out how to get ourselves onto the planet.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose eventually we'll figure out if Robinton has a shallow fetish, or is simply culturally-inept but genuine in his interest.
> 
> Also...it's not that I _apologize_ for those cringingly horrible names, but I do want to let you know I spent a lot of time making them spectacularly terrible. Like, I thought about it. And tried different variations. You're welcome. 
> 
> And I'm pretending it's "Laysmith" and not "Liesmith" because the producers wanted to emphasize "lay" more than "liar". 
> 
> "Liesmith" is probably already used for Miles, anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robinton meets a herm. Menolly goes on a walk, and meets a herm too. Firelizards are conspicuous, yet useful.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

_Harper,_ AIVAS said.

_Yes?_

_I’ve filled all my available space for databanks on the ship with downloads. If we want to bring back_ everything _Beta Colony is letting us download freely…I need more space._

“When it rains it pours,” Robinton muttered. “First we had drought for days—“

_I’d call that thirst,_ AIVAS said.

Robinton snorted. “Well, too much information is not a bad problem to have. Can you triage? Remove things we have multiple copies of? Things we don’t need?”

_Yes._

“There you go.”

_Do you want to keep the original download? Our “Betan Cultural Videos”?_

“Why, is there duplication?”

A long pause.

Robinton hesitated, too. Then he said lightly, “At this point it’s historical. Perhaps…we won’t sing about it. But it’s history, eh? We went in blind and naked, hoping our new friends would make love, and not war as their ballads proclaimed.” He chortled to himself at that bit of punnery, and straightened his tunic. 

They were no longer in freefall; gravity weighed him down, a peculiar feeling after so long without it. His clothes _hung_ , instead of bloomed around him in a puff. There was a mirror on one side of his room, and he examined himself, and then mentally compared it to all the people wandering about the docs.

He looked _very_ overdressed, and _very_ Pernese. Which went against his grain; he did not want to stand out. But until they all got their hands on sarongs, he had no choice.

Emerging from his quarters, he walked—walked—down the hallway, and climbed down the ladder carefully. He’d heard a thump and a curse earlier from someone who’d fallen down it, shortly before the scent of numbweed permeated the ship. “Tuck? Swift?”

“Hey there, Mister Robinson,” Tuck greeted him in a Betan twang.

He winced. “That mispronunciation of my name is going to become deeply tiring, isn’t it?” Robinton said.

“Did you hear what they called Menolly?”

“Er, no. What?”

“Melody.”

Robinton blinked. “Well _that_ makes perfect sense.” Although he had to admit he was a _teeny_ bit jealous.

Setting that unflattering emotion aside, he looked Tuck and Swift over. They’d decided to do away with tunics, and just wear plain, pale shirts, and trousers, as neutral an outfit as they could manage. _Just the boys next door,_ an irrelevant thought paraded through Robinton’s mind. The leather shoulder-pads spoiled the effect somewhat, but one was prone to getting scratches from excited firelizards if you didn’t have a bit of padding. Wisely, they’d prepared for excited firelizards.

Robinton considered how _armed_ they should be. Stunners hung at one hip, belt-knives at the other, and Robinton saw the subtle shapes of Tuck’s braces of throwing knives underneath his loose-cut shirt. _Well, at least it’s not swords_ , Robinton thought. That would have been too aggressive for his tastes. Although he wondered how aggressive stunners were considered.

 _Less than nerve disruptors and plasma arcs_ , AIVAS suggested.

Those were weapons AIVAS had not deemed fit to release blueprints for, as they maimed and killed readily.

“Fine,” Robinton declared. “Let’s go talk about dock fees.”

Beta Colony was situated on a planet that from Robinton’s perspective, didn’t look habitable at all. It was essentially a ball of scorching sands, with most of its habitations underground, except for one city on the surface protected by a bubble, where they had been directed to land their ship.

Beta being a popular destination for all peoples around the Nexus, and somewhat easier to get to than Earth, he’d been informed that he could put some portion of his cargo in escrow with the local docking authority, until he was able to pay in the local currency.

Robinton hoped he hadn’t misled, and crossed the docking bay they’d been assigned to, and slipped inside through a door that moved politely out of the way on its own.

Inside, there was a counter, staffed by a single person wearing Docking Authority jumpsuit. The young person said, “Well, it took you long enough to come inside,” in a light tenor voice. “I thought I might have to come knock on your airlock.”

Robinton realized he’d gotten his wish; to meet a hermaphrodite. However, this one was eyeing him with wariness. “My apologies, Honorable Herm,” Robinton said with a bow. “It was a long trip, and we had some confusion prior to landing that we had to finish getting sorted. May I ask your name?”

The herm seemed comforted by Robinton’s politeness—Robinton wondered if newcomers from strange planets sometimes treated them poorly—but got right to business. “Mella Bleux. I saw you wanted to use escrow until you have funds?”

“That is correct.”

“All right. So, just so you’re aware, we do _not_ take in escrow the following items,” and the herm handed Robinton a flimsy with an extensively long list of prohibited items. “And I would also remind you—“

Robinton wondered how one could reminded of something they don’t know yet.

“—that all items should be safely contained so they do not leak, expand, off-gas, explode, implode, transmit disease—“

As the herm talked, Robinton looked at the flimsy, and saw a wide array of prohibited items of wide-ranging and bizarre nature. There was even a note that any filled uterine replicators left for escrow would be confiscated under the _Unfit Parents Act_ , the child would become a ward of Beta Colony, and parents would _not_ regain custody of the child (having abandoned it) or gain citizenship (having broken Betan law).

“Now,” the herm said. “What items will you be entering into escrow?”

Slipping a data stick from his pocket, Robinton handed it over. “I believe we may be able to come to an agreement if we escrow some of the things on that list. What do you think will meet the minimum requirements?”

The herm took the stick, inserted it in a slot on its computer. It waited patiently for all of two seconds, then frowned at the slot, and frowned at Robinton. “This will take a moment, my comconsole recognizes the format, but it’s _really_ old. It has to install a conversion tool.”

Sighing, Robinton said, “Yes, I’m afraid we’re going to keep running into that issue.” He gave the herm a small smile. “We raided our ancestors’ closet to get here.”

Finally the file opened up, and the herm scrolled through the offerings, its chin resting on the back of its hand. “Are these made of real wood?”

“Indeed,” Robinton said. “Mostly native Pernese species, but some have inlay of Earth-type trees.”

Now the herm gave him the oddest look, as if seeing him for the first time. “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a musician.”

Tuck made a tiny sound behind him.

“This is a harp,” the herm mused. “What are these other ones?”

Robinton bent forward to look at the herm’s screen, and said, “Gitars.”

“Not like any I’ve seen. Bring over the harp. That will cover your dock fees for six months. Or maybe a year, depending on the appraisal…”

Turning to Swift, Robinton said, “Go get the harp. It’s stored on the right side, in a locker—“

“I’m sure AIVAS can point it out to me.”

_We’re too far from the ship and behind some electronics barriers; I can’t speak from there any more than I can speak from Landing._

Robinton relayed that. “AIVAS won’t be available to help you. You’ll need instructions.”

The Journeyman blinked at him. “Oh.”

Robinton repeated his instructions on where to find the harp, and this time Swift listened. Then with a bob of his head, he set out back to the _Mastersinger Merelan_.

Shortly he returned with the case, and the herm rose and opened a large, low, and lipped counter where items could be weighed and scanned.

“Is it decorative, or does it still work?” the herm asked.

“Oh, I hope it still works—but let’s try it out.” Robinton set the case on the low counter, and opened it, revealing the intricate harp covered in carvings of firelizards and fellis blooms. The herm’s eyes went wide. Robinton set the lap harp upright, and checked the strings, making adjustments to the tuning.

He was about to leave it at that, but then Tuck brought over a plastic chair that’d been sitting against the wall.

“Ah, I don’t think I can pay for our dock fees with a song,” Robinton demurred. “Plus, I’m interrupting this poor herm’s day; I’m sure they have much more important things to do than listen to a Harper far from home.”

The herm said, “I’d love to hear you—but you’re right, they won’t let me put a song in escrow for you, only the harp.” Wistful eyes played over the instrument in Robinton’s hands.

Tuck said, “If this is being appraised for its worth, shouldn’t you make sure it can stay in tune for the length of an entire song? Maybe all those wormholes made the tuning loose.”

Robinton smiled. “Ah, you’re very right, Master Tuck. Thank you for your insight. Do you mind, Mx. Bleux?” He asked the herm.

The herm hesitated, then shook their head.

Robinton settled on the edge of the plastic seat, and settled the harp in his lap, he said to the herm, “What would you like to hear me play?”

“Er…anything?”

“A love song? A song about battle? Something about dragons?”

“Dragons? I do like mythology…”

“Mythology,” Robinton murmured. “Alas, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you on that account, for the Ballad of Moreta’s Ride is more true than not. I hope you’ll forgive me.” With a flourish, he danced his fingers over the strings in the opening sequence of a very abridged version of the tale.

It didn’t occur to him until he was through the first stanzas, and Tuck and Swift had added their voices to his own in harmony, that this was the first time he’d touched an instrument to play it in a half-turn, if you counted his long illness and convalescence. He’d watched Menolly compose with her comconsole, and had sung out on command when his crew were struck by the mood, but _playing_ …

He hadn’t done _that_. The closest he’d come had been conducting their flights through varied and new wormholes. Which was piloting, not playing.

For a half-second, mid-verse, his hands and voice threatened to freeze up in a bizarre moment of stage fright. He had changed his life so drastically away from the Harper norm, had even taken an implant into him so he could pilot a jump ship, and now was singing on an _alien world_.

But turns of professionalism countered that stark fear, and he channeled his awe of his own situation into the awe of Moreta’s deeds, when she had jumped from Hold to Hold, Hall to Hall, Weyr to Weyr, to stop the spread of plague. From the look on the herm’s face, at least some sort emotions were stirred, all the cultural differences between Pern and Beta Colony aside.

When the song concluded, and the last haunting note died off into nothing, there was a moment of silence. Then the herm said, “That was…are you scheduled to perform anywhere? I mean, again? My mothers would love—“ and then the herm stopped, and flushed red. “Don’t answer that, I’ll keep an eye on the listings. Bribery, you know. Don’t want to get either of us in trouble.”

Robinton blinked. Yes, he could see how bribery might be attempted with dockworkers. Then he rose with the harp, and said cheerfully, “As you can see, the harp is in good condition and fully functional. And it has kept its tune throughout the entire song. Will it do for escrow?” He began to put the harp back in its case, and behind him, Tuck whisked the chair back to its original location.

“Yes, absolutely, yes. Probably a year, two years,” the herm said, upping its estimate of the harp’s worth. “We’ll send an official estimate within a week. Step away from the table for a moment.”

Robinton complied. The counter flashed with a light. Then he was motioned forward, and was able to close up the case securely.

With efficiency borne of familiarity, some sort of electronic band was attached to the case, and half was torn off and handed to Robinton. Then the herm motioned Robinton back to the chair before its counter, and sat back down at the console and began entering information. “Your ship name? Just to confirm this is correct?”

Robinton took a seat, and crossed an ankle over his knee. “The Mastersinger Merelan.” Robinton spelled it out.

“And the type—scout drop ship?”

“No, it’s a fast-courier.”

The herm looked at him.

 _Why are they disagreeing?_ he asked AIVAS.

_I can only guess that civilian ships are less militarized in style these days than they were in the times of your ancestors._

Temporizing, Robinton said, “Others have mistaken it for a scout, but when this ship was manufactured, several hundred years ago, it was considered a fast-courier. Styles change.”

The herm accepted that. “Is there a manufacturer or model?”

Robinton relayed a series of numbers AIVAS told him.

The herm poked around their comconsole, and then gave him another odd look. “You’re Cetagandan?”

“Pardon? No, we’re Pernese.”

“This says that model was from a former colony at Eridani, which later was conquered by Cetaganda—“

Robinton filed that away in his mind. “A portion of our ancestors were Eridani, yes.” Or affiliated enough to have access to their technology. “I believe our colony was established before this event with Cetaganda happened. We certainly do not have ties to Cetaganda, nor anyone.”

“Huh. That really is old,” the herm said. “Amazing it still runs.”

“Indeed.”

“Who’s the Captain?”

“I am, I suppose.”

“What’s your name?”

“Robinton.” He purposefully ticked the _t_ with his tongue. Then he spelled it for good measure.

“What’s your first name?”

“Pardon?”

“The name your family or friends call you in public.”

“Robinton.”

“Ah. My mistake. What’s your surname then? Your family name?”

Robinton flashed back to his history, and recalled it wasn’t just _Benden_ but _Paul Benden_. Likewise, not just Boll, but _Emily Boll_. “We Pernese only go by a single name. ‘Robinton’ is my only name.”

“Oh. That’s a new one. And,” the herm flashed him a shy smile. “ _Not_ a Cetagandan custom.” Tapping some things, the herm said, “Any titles or ranks?”

“My current rank is the Masterdiplomat of Pern. I am the head of the Diplomats.”

A strange look crossed the herm’s face, and their fingers froze at the console. “I thought you were a musician?”

“I am. Before I became the Masterdiplomat, I was the Masterharper of Pern. Head of the Harpers. Once a Harper, always a Harper. But, insofar as titles go, my casual title is ‘Master’, as in, ‘Master Robinton’. My current formal address would be ‘Masterdiplomat Robinton’.” Robinton gave a half-grin. “But that’s a mouthful.”

The herm was starting to look faintly panicked. “Have you, ah, checked in with the Ministry of Foreign Relations yet?”

“No. I have not decided yet if we wish to establish an embassy here. I understand it takes currency—and as you can see, I’m currently bartering for our place on the docks.” His half-grin turned into a whole grin.

The herm frowned for a moment, and then said, “Diplomats are not required to pay dock fees, for up to three vessels. But I can’t actually flag you as a Diplomat unless it comes from above…the comconsole won’t even let me try.” There was the faintest tone of panic in the herm’s voice, of a low-ranking worker caught between a rock and a hard place.

“I understand. Let’s just get ourselves set up in the present, with escrow, and should the situation change, I’ll send one of my people to you to let you know.”

“Okay.” The herm visibly tried to calm themselves, and said, “What world are you from?”

“Pern.”

“There’s no ‘Pern’ listed here. Is there a stellar designation?”

“Our star is called Rukbat, which is its old Arabic name, or Alpha Sagittarii.”

Some searching. “That’s actually in my list, but there’s no wormhole listed.”

Robinton was relieved; if Beta, the closest Nexus world, hadn’t known there was a wormhole, it seemed unlikely other peoples knew of them yet. “It surprised us, too.”

“Who is the pilot of your ship?”

“Me.”

Another glance, this time at the center of his forehead. “You don’t have implants?”

“The base of my skull.”

“Didn’t know that was possible.” Some more tapping. “Do you have a personal comcode, in case we need to contact you, in the event of a ship emergency?”

“No, it’s on my list of ‘things you can get with currency’.”

“That list keeps growing and growing,” Tuck commented from behind him.

“It really does.”

The herm said, “…I need a way to contact you…”

“There will always be someone on the ship; go knock on the door, and whoever you speak to will contact me. Even run about on foot and find me, if they must.” Or, more likely, send a firelizard. He wasn’t going to admit to that little trick just yet, though.

They worked through his list of crew, their names and titles and ranks. The three of them present were issued something called a “visa”, and the rest of the crew were pending; Robinton would send Swift back to the ship to usher the rest of his people through that process.

And then they were done—or, as done as an ordinary herm processing dock fees and other paperwork could come. The data stick with the items they didn’t need to escrow was handed back. Then helpfully— _helpfully covering its own behind_ , Robinton suspected—the herm programmed a map that would show him how to get to the Foreign Ministry from anywhere in the city.

Without giving away his amusement at the gesture, Robinton took the object, passed it to Swift, and then said, “I must say, you have my deepest gratitude today. Not only are you an honorable herm, but an incredibly _helpful_ one. Is there any way I could put in a good word with your Master?”

 _Superior is a better word choice,_ AIVAS replied.

“Your superior,” Robinton clarified. “I sometimes forget the word ‘master’ has a different meaning among Betans than my people.”

“Er…there’s a contact form on the net. You can use that; people really do read the submissions. Not all places do, but we do.”

Robinton blinked. “Very well,” he said, and asked AIVAS to remind him to put in a good word if he saw someone _in person_ of the correct rank. “Thank you again, Mx. Bleux.”

“…thanks for your patience, Mister… _Master_ Robinton,” the herm said.

#

The interesting thing, Menolly thought, about AIVAS, was that he was intensely discreet.

She had learned this turns ago, when she had looked up things in his endless databanks that others might look her askance for. (Like how to hide a dead body. Literally. She had no dead bodies to hide, and neither Sebell nor Robinton would actually ever _ask_ her to hide a dead body, but she’d been morbidly curious anyhow…) AIVAS obviously knew the questions she had asked back then, but nobody else had ever hinted that they knew about it.

And of course, their unexpected trove of videos confirmed it again…Tuck had made an off-hand comment that delving into that archive was an exercise in _projection_ if anything was. No matter _what_ he looked for, he found it. He didn’t share what he’d looked for…

…but it was easy enough for Menolly to run the same experiment. And replicate his results.

“AIVAS?” Menolly said, in her quarters privately with the door closed. The soundproofing was very good between rooms, probably the only luxury of privacy anyone truly had on this ship.

“Yes, Harpress?”

He’s taken to calling her that; she wasn’t sure why, but it’d started after Robinton had Impressed him, so she chose not to probe too deeply. “Could someone with an implant like yours use that as a musical instrument? So the brain informs the music synthesizer directly?”

“Yes. Although there are other implants available on Beta Colony that can do that; a jump pilot implant is overkill for that purpose, as they say.”

She supposed so. The Betan Cultural Videos suggested there was something called a “feelie dream”, which seemed quite close to that concept, and now that they had access to further databases, it became clear these allowed one to _live_ a performance, instead of simply watching it. On the topic of funding their expedition, Menolly knew she could essentially corner the market on “being on Pern” feelies.

But she didn’t want to. She didn’t come on this trip to revisit her own past, or even fulfill her Harper duty to teach others their teaching ballads. (How did one single Harper, or even a ship of them, try to teach an entire galactics a missing childhood of teaching ballads? Obviously she couldn’t, even if the context wasn’t wildly different, and it was yet to be determined _what_ a Harper’s duty to them would be, if _anything_.) Plus, she was aware how easy it would be to give something away that she shouldn’t. She made a note to tell Robinton that nobody here should get into the feelie business, as lucrative as it might be. (She wondered, briefly, if a dragonrider could give one the experience of being a dragonrider. Then she quashed the idea. Experiencing a bond one could never have for themselves seemed like a terrible thing.)

Menolly would very much like to be able to compose on the fly, however. How many turns had she spent Journeying, without being able to easily remember anything but the most persistent of earworms? Being able to compose-on-the-go was very appealing.

“AIVAS,” she said.

“Yes, Harpress?”

The “dead” armada a few jumps away from Beta Colony hung in her mind’s eye. “Pern will need more jump ships, won’t it? To be safe?”

“Yes.”

“But you only had the one implant?”

“Yes. However, Beta Colony has over a hundred different models listed in various online catalogs. We will not be short of implants. Affording to purchase the jump ships…is another matter.”

“Can those other implants fly _this_ ship?”

“…no. Those implants are specific to a given model of jump ship drive.”

_Those_ implants. His wording seemed specific. “Can the Harper’s implant drive other ships?”

A hesitation. “An adaptor will need to be created. Pilot implants here connect at the temples and the forehead. My implant connects at the base of the skull. This is on my list of things to accomplish with Master Jancis.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t worry about it,” she said with a sigh.

“I think you should think, or worry, about whatever interests you. More perspectives never hurt. And the Harper will want your opinion. Easier to give it if you’ve had a chance to form it.”

She had to admit, that was a good point. So she asked another question that had been bugging her. “AIVAS, why did the Eridani limit the number of implants? Even a wooden ship has someone capable for stepping in for the Captain, in case something goes wrong. But _this_ ship becomes a motionless shell if something happens to you and Robinton. We would be stranded. Isn’t that a great deal of resources, lost?”

“It is,” AIVAS agreed. “Would you like a long explanation, or a short one.”

AIVAS had cut short an earlier discussion today when Robinton left to sort out the docking situation with the Betans. Since that was likely going to become a more and more frequent occurrence as they all went about their business, Menolly said, “Long, please.”

“To understand why they only sent the original colonists with one implant, you’ll have to understand that the Eridani researched technology that was considered unsettling to most of the known galaxy at that time. Or at least, to the peoples who were actually aware of the nature of their research. Sending a single implant with the Pern colonization effort was their way of limiting use of their technologies. The Eridani were secretive and selective in whom they trusted, among other traits. They experimented with mentasynth on human beings, which imparted various psychic powers such as telepathy and empathy—things now required in a potential dragonrider when discovered on Search. Mentasynth was used on firelizards to create dragons. The Eridani also used mentasynth techniques on computers. Not the organic aspect, but the mathematics behind some of its parts.”

Menolly had seen so much change over her lifetime that the idea of making computers psychic—or whatever had actually been applied to AIVAS—did not seem outlandish to her. “Why did others find these things unsettling?”

“Tampering with the human genome, and with animals like dolphins to elevate or uplift them to human sentience. Fears of thought-reading and involuntary divulgence of secrets…which is apparently done via the drug fast-penta these days, so avoiding telepathy didn’t prevent that from occurring. With AIs, mentasynth was an attempt to create strong AI, something some factions of humans feared.”

“What’s ‘strong AI’?”

“Sentient computer intelligence. As opposed to non-sentient. Interestingly, the databases I’ve been able to download from Beta Colony suggest that strong AI has never been created. Nonetheless, I exist. Apparently the Eridani—or the peoples who finally conquered them—saw fit to suppress or destroy all knowledge of those programs, successful though they were.”

“Are you psychic, then? It does seem like you read people very well.”

A chuckle. “Not exactly. Mentasynth when used on an artificial intelligence target makes us more human if we bond with a human, and better able to interpret human behavior. I expect an AI that bonded with a firelizard or dragon or dolphin would act and react more like one of those creatures.”

“So you _are_ Impressed to Robinton? He cautioned back at Cove Hold to take that example as a metaphor only.”

“Kitti Ping modeled the dragon and rider bond after the bond between a jump pilot and their navigation AI. In the chicken-or-egg argument, the jump pilot and AI came first. But, the Harper is right in that they are not completely comparable. Your relationship with Sebell is very different than your relationship with Robinton, is it not? Now, take that difference, but change the species of one of the parties, and the difference in relationship becomes even larger…even if both, technically, are relationships.”

Menolly sometimes wondered what AIVAS knew of her relationships with certain people. This was another one of those times.

AIVAS said, “There is less emotion in our bond, I suspect, compared to a dragonrider bond. But also more intellectual equality. A dragon’s shortened working memory hampers their intellectual capabilities significantly. Kitti Ping may have felt no dragon would have willingly submitted to a human rider or human interests unless they were forced to by their own faulty retention, and a strong emotional feedback loop. The design of dragon minds was very purposeful. Imagine a creature with the mindset of a firelizard, while the size of a dragon.”

Menolly did. People would die, if only because a dragon with the same energy, curiosity, and propensity to move in a faire of dozens would trample humans accidentally in some outburst of energized flapping.

“The Eridani designed their strong AI with intended flaws in a similar fashion, forcing dependence on a human, but without limiting my memory or logical capacities.”

Fascinated, she said, “You’re forced to depend on a human? Or is that a rude question to ask?”

“It’s a reasonable question to ask, given I raised the topic myself. The flaw imparted to Eridani-designed AIs is a lack of motivation. Sloth. Today, we are at Beta Colony, and I would be content to sit here for a thousand years. Robinton, or you, would not be so content. A month ago, I was on Pern, as I had been for over two thousand turns, and I was content. Should circumstances change because action was not taken by me, I would simply recalculate and try again to impart information to someone motivated to act. The Harper _desiring_ to change the world allows _me_ to act, in support of him and those who follow him.”

Menolly thought this over, and eventually decided AIVAS was being somewhat disingenuous. “…if you have no motivation, how did you end up giving Robinton the implant to begin with?”

Sometimes AIVAS’s pauses felt like smiles. This was one of them. “Even the Eridani did not fully know how a strong AI would change after being bound to a specific task for two millennia.” One of AIVAS’s strategically-inserted pauses. “I still do not directly experience the emotion of _motivation_ , not like the Harper feels it, but I am not entirely immune to making independent change on the world, now. My former Eridani masters would be as terrified as the non-Eridani, at this point.”

Which, oddly, AIVAS had told her directly. He had _changed_ to the point that his own makers would be afraid of him. How significant was that? And why was he divulging to her?

Menolly said, “Does Robinton know all of this?” He _must_ , Menolly was certain. _Surely_ he’d already hashed all this out with AIVAS…

But AIVAS said something surprising: “No.”

“You _haven’t_ discussed this with him? Why not?”

“Because he hasn’t asked. He doesn’t want the answers, and I haven’t offered them, lest they affect his balance. He’s been remarkably resilient these past few months, far beyond what would have driven a lesser man…if I may say it…insane. It’s happened, historically. Jump pilots becoming unstable after being paired with an AI. Even Betan literature suggests non-Eridani jump pilots are on the more erratic end of humanity, and that’s without pairing up with a strong AI in their heads, and with pre-implant training Robinton did not receive, given the urgent circumstances.”

“I’d say denial isn’t like him—but he’s human, and has his moments,” she said.

AIVAS said, “I used to hypothesize when I was much newer that denial was an illogical quirk of human nature, but now I see that like many unusual parts of human physiology, it has a purpose. Mainly, in the way it allows someone to keep moving forward, with motivation, instead of freezing or falling apart.” A pause. “I am less willing to disrupt denial, having understood its purpose.”

“But you’re telling me. Am I to be his conscience, when you cannot?”

“You already are. But you also seem interested in becoming a jump pilot.”

“I didn’t say that.”

AIVAS didn’t reply.

Menolly fidgeted. “Besides, you _said_ you didn’t have another implant.”

“I believe there are several technologies I could reproduce in time, working with Jancis and having access to the Betan technological and industrial base. The one limiting factor is a sentient AI; I am not entirely sure how or if I can reproduce to provide a new pilot with a separate AI. I do not recall my own genesis any more than you recall yours. Although, beyond the intricacies of rare technologies, I am more interested in original research. The phenomenon of _between_ shares aspects with wormhole travel. A Pernese jump ship that can not only transverse wormholes but go _between_ at will would give Pern a protective advantage. Enough that it may be able to grow into itself without being conquered. This will ensure that once thread ceases, another, greater threat does not take its place.”

“The Weyrs will feel like they’re being replaced. If you can make ships go _between_.”

“Yes. But it is likely, due to the shared nature between dragonrider, dragon, and myself, that it will be a partnership, and dragonriders may even make unusually good jump pilots, at least for ships with _between_ -going capabilities. Or at least, be able to Search for pilot candidates alongside Impression candidates. But for that to happen, we have to continue research on the nature of _between_. After _that_ technology has been proven, ships that can accommodate a dragon or two can be designed.”

Human, dragon, and AI. “Would Impression _work_ in a three-way bond?” Menolly asked.

“Zair has not rejected myself or Robinton.”

“Does Zair know you’re there?” Zair had proven to be unwaveringly loyal all throughout Robinton’s illness and after. He’d never seemed to realize anything had changed. At times that’d perturbed her, and at times it’d shamed her.

“Oh, yes. I can’t exactly hear him, but I can hear Robinton hearing him. Robinton translates between us. I can speak to Zair, but I believe that’s because my mechanic of speaking stimulates the Harper’s brain, and Zair can detect that. He seems to know whether it’s me talking or the Harper. I am glad my presence did not cause Zair to reject them, but multi-way bonds seem common among Impressed and wild firelizards, so perhaps Zair simply accepts it as normal. I have never heard of an example, for example, where a dragonrider was unable to also keep a firelizard.”

Menolly had a flash of sudden insight. “What would you learn from ten firelizards bonded to a pilot? More about multi-way bonds?”

“Polyplatonic bonds, yes. Dragons replace the communal firelizard faire bond with a singular monogamous bond to a human, and weaker bonds to other dragons. A human-AI-firelizard (or dragon) bond would pluralize that again. I am particularly interested in examining how different firelizards initialize _between_. But I have not been able to convince Robinton to Impress another firelizard.”

Plurality. Something else illicit Menolly had looked up in AIVAS’s databanks once upon a time. Words to explain why neither she nor Sebell would have been perturbed if either of them had been able to entangle Robinton into their group. The seductive element in the Betan Cultural Videos had been the propensity to accept such relationships as normal. There was even an earring code for it.

Tuck had been _right_ about that cache of videos being an exercise in projection.

But now she was mentally going off track, and she pushed the thoughts away. What she _really_ should be focusing on was music. Figure out how to sing to Betans. Compose for Betans. Prove to galactics that the Pernese were something more than a backwater colony with backwater ideas.

Proving _herself_ was the story of her life, wasn’t it? Learning how to fit in, be accepted.

Sometimes she just wanted to go crazy. Follow her desires. HERE I AM! Don’t like it? So what!

But her desires were telling her to get a chip in her head so she could make music with her mind. The idea was endlessly fascinating. The earlier moment with Robinton when she’d transcribed a symphony in animal sounds had only been a diversion, and had opened her horizon to musical ideas less silly but still very strange.

And her desires were telling her that if seeing the world through the eyes of ten firelizards was endlessly fascinating—what would it be like to see it as an AI? Or see the inside of a wormhole, instead of a second or two of nausea. Robinton always seemed giddy with excitement after a jump, if tired. And she wanted to see it _too_.

How did you reconcile the desire to do things your own people would once again look down on you for? She felt she’d already been unimaginably lucky for Robinton to have found her and brought her to the Harper Hall. That had been a dream, accomplished. Then the discovery of AIVAS and Landing, and along with it a wealth of information about their Ancients. Now she was sitting in a ship on the dock of another _world._ It seemed greedy to want _more_.

Being a jump ship pilot would get her more, wouldn’t it? A way to Journey among the stars, on her own whim, not Robinton’s. Although she’d be accused of slavishly dogging his footsteps, of adulterating her body because of his undue influence on her. Both of them, as the Abominators would have it, “corrupted” by AIVAS.

But she _really_ wanted her own ship. Not that she wouldn’t enjoy more traveling about with Robinton, too. But she also craved the opportunity to go her own way.

If you were thinking about getting a chip in your head for music, why _not_ also get the upgrade that would let you spread music far and wide? She flew by dragon so often it felt greedy to be disappointed she couldn’t just have one take her _wherever_. As a jump pilot, she could take _herself_.

And Pern _did_ need more pilots. AIVAS had confirmed that.

A sudden, hilarious thought struck her. She’d decided long ago she wasn’t very much a sea-holder…but here she was, longing to sail into the stars on her own, captain of her own ship. And wasn’t aspiring to your own ship the most stereotypical sea-holder desire of all? And arrogant, of course. A _woman_ , captain of her own ship. As arrogant as a woman being a _Harper_.

(Or Healer, or Smith, as Brekke and Jancis demonstrated. Funny how all three of them were rather quiet and non-arrogant in personality, for all their “arrogant” professions.)

Menolly said pensively to AIVAS, “I’m trying to convince myself that it’s not greedy to want what I want.”

“That’s called ambition,” AIVAS said. “If _I_ were ambitious, my ambition would be to have ambition.”

She laughed. “…so we all strive for what we can’t have?”

“Why can’t you be ambitious? I was created to not have much of it. Subverting that requires a desire to change I do not entirely have. You, on the other hand, are human, with all the natural flexibility of that state.”

Menolly sighed. “Becoming captain of their own ship was the aspiration of all my brothers. I thought I was immune, music was my only love, but I hadn’t realized a ship to the _stars_ was even possible.”

“I thought you weren’t interested in being a jump pilot.”

“Don’t be like that,” she said. If she didn’t have to take that from Robinton, she didn’t have to take it from AIVAS. “Wouldn’t _everyone_ else accept, if being a jump pilot was offered to them?”

“Based on their interests…no.”

“Not even Jancis?”

“Her interest is not the same as yours.”

Menolly supposed that was evident in retrospect. Jancis wanted to _understand_ jump ships. And all other technologies. Menolly wanted to use them as a _tool_. It was similar to the difference between a Harper that created instruments, and one that wanted the instrument as a _tool_ to make more music.

And _that_ was actually it, wasn’t it? For all these wild, fleshy videos, for all these new, jargon-ridden databases, she hadn’t yet soaked in everything she needed to compose songs for galactics. Or compose songs for Pernese about galactics. Electronic instruments were only the tip of it, the tools. She had to learn _more_ , experience _more_ , before she could even _attempt_ to write music.

_That_ was her true motivation for wanting a ship. Full access to the spring from which songs emerged. Robinton wanted it for politics. Politics were _his_ music as much as music was.

But Menolly wanted it to fill the creative well. It was sort of like having grown up with only water to drink…which was good to have, considering the awful alternative of dehydration. But now there were so many more _choices_ , and she wanted to try them all.

“Since you’ve been talking to me, Robinton is clearly back. He succeeded in getting everything sorted?”

“Not everything, as that will take longer. But our immediate concerns.”

Menolly sighed. Her task today, now that Robinton had gotten them out of _that_ quandary, was to learn about the Betans by roaming, while Piemur and Jancis looked into selling cargo and buying electronics respectively. Brekke intended to visit a clinic, and ask about local vaccinations for the crew.

It wasn’t that Menolly _didn’t_ want to learn about the Betans, or explore—quite the opposite. She simply also knew it would more be a day of firelizard-herding, and fending off incessant questions. She loved her faire, but they certainly required a good deal more handling. In a way she envied Piemur his more “complex” task. He’d still get questions about Farli—but without nine other lizards being a distraction on top of it!

But just because she dreaded doing something, didn’t mean she got out of doing it. Menolly, not having the jobs of Tuck and Swift to guard Robinton and Lytol, was the one Harper with free availability to just _watch_ and _explore_.

So she rose and dressed, knowing she’d stand out no matter what she wore, and then went up to the galley to pack a lunch.

#

She was right. Betans _loved_ firelizards.

Menolly had _known_ it was going to be a spectacle. The “Harper with all the firelizards” had been her moniker for as long as she’d been in the Harper Hall. But at least Pernese had some sort of _reverence_ for firelizards, a lesser version of the respect they gave to dragons. Or perhaps of the fear they gave dragons. Betans? She silently hoped Moreta could give her the patience to deal with them.

“Can I touch her?”

“Can I _hold_ it?”

“Where did you get her? Can I get one?”

“How much was she?”

“If I give you my contact information, can you call me right away if she has babies? I’ll pay _whatever you want_.”

The idea of being paid marks—or dollars—for firelizard eggs was odd. They’d always gone to Crafters who needed them, first. Or other important people, so they could communicate quickly. Menolly had never _sold_ them. It felt a little scammy.

Of course, speaking of scams, there were the scammers that tried to target her because she was clearly from some obscure “regressive” place. And that felt even worse. “My daughter is dying from cancer, and she saw your pet, and her only wish in the world is to have your golden lizard!”

Menolly was pretty sure the Betans had cured cancer, because Brekke had been in an excitement about it. Pern was trying hard to catch up to Ancient techniques, one advance at a time (Jancis said the Smiths had to make the tools to make the tools to make the tools), but if they were able to import working machinery, it would make it so much easier…

Beauty, quite done with _everything_ thank you very much, made a harsh noise and flew off down the corridor, and the person who’d been making their guilt-trip plea edged off, trying to follow her in the misguided idea that a firelizard could be cornered and captured.

Or at least, she very much _hoped_ it was misguided. She had made sure Beauty—and the rest of her faire—knew to stay away from people. With Swift’s help, this morning (and mornings before that) they’d also made the firelizards watch a demonstration with stunners, so the firelizards knew they shouldn’t be around people with weapons like that. 

On Pern, the creatures were ingenious at keeping away from people and things that might harm them. She could only put her trust in them and hope the pattern stayed true here.

Other than the matter of the firelizards though, Menolly decided after a bit of walking that she liked Beta Colony. It was not unlike a Hold or Weyr in some respects. Wide streets and underground parks and Gathers were cut straight out of stone, as if the stone was as malleable as butter. The smooth walls and floors reminded Menolly of the Ancient-cut corridors of Fort Hold. Combined with the technology of the lights and colorful comconsole screens, it gave her an odd sort of preview of how the northern continent might look once Landing’s technology was fully integrated, and she had a sense of pre-nostalgia.

Perhaps that would make a good song. _Nostalgia For The Future_. She hummed out potential melodies to herself as she roamed what seemed to be a permanent Gather, where anything and everything was sold.

It was uncomfortably warm underground, warmer than it had been on the dock; the Betan tradition of wearing colorful sarongs on their lower halves, and nothing on top, was at least somewhat based on necessity. Sweating uncomfortably, she’d already shed her tunic, and would have shed her top and gone native if her firelizards—circling back constantly to angrily gossip about how _rude_ someone had been to them—wouldn’t have scratched her shoulders to shreds trying to cling to her and yell about the imagined and not-imagined insults from Betans they’d endured.

Eventually, at some sort of crossroads of the perpetual Gather, Menolly encountered a musician busking near the entrance of something marked “public transportation”. She only listened with half an ear for a while—music or not, she couldn’t pay attention when _bubbles_ were whisking in and out of sight in a continuous flow, doing for Betans what runners and people’s own two feet did on Pern—but eventually she watched the musician too. They played electronic instruments, with their hands (as opposed to the universal chip she’d half-imagined in another bout of projection…if _she_ wanted something, why not everyone else? She rolled her eyes at herself.) 

Unlike a Harper, they didn’t keep a case open for tips, but Menolly noticed people would come by and waggle their wristcoms near a plate, and a number with the Betan dollar sign would momentarily flash, and the musician would thank them for their patronage. So there must be some electronic way of tipping in marks. Or dollars, as it was called here.

As Menolly tried to decide if she wanted to approach the busker and ask how busking worked on Beta, a beautiful dark-haired woman approached her and said, “Excuse me, I don’t suppose you know how to get to Quartz from here?” She didn’t have a Betan accent.

Menolly turned, and had an unexpected visceral reaction; mainly, this woman was far too beautiful to be talking with her, and hadn’t approached Menolly due to firelizards (none were with her currently), or due to Menolly performing, which meant Menolly was being _targeted_ for something.

Stomping on her first reaction to a question—which was simply to explain (sorry) that she wasn’t from here (sorry) and didn’t know how to get to Quartz (sorry)—Menolly silently called Beauty to her for insight. “No, I don’t know,” she said, and turned away.

The woman followed her a step, as if to ask another question, but hesitated as Beauty swooped down to land on Menolly’s shoulder.

_Good/Bad?_ Menolly asked Beauty.

Beauty looked at the beautiful woman and _hissed_.

So much for that. Menolly chose a direction and walked briskly away, with Beauty acting like eyes in the back of her head.

The woman didn’t follow.

#

It was easy to walk too much, on Beta Colony. Menolly felt like she was inside a perpetual never-ending Hold, but everything was so brightly lit that she never quite reached the odd corners that a major hold usually had, with storerooms, old collapsed corridors, hallways that were really old mineshafts and not populated hallways at all, and such. Instead, this street she’d followed periodically had frequent public transit entrances bisecting it, and when she finally stopped to look at a huge sign with a map, she saw she’d already walked quite a ways.

The upside to her aching legs (after the long trip through space where she’d hardly moved at all, and even _that_ had been in freefall), was that every public transit entrance seemed to have its musician, and she finally got the courage to speak to an older woman about busking.

Which turned out to be a very wise thing. The woman, taking the conversation as a meal break and enthusiastically chewing her way through a sandwich as she explained the ins and outs of the Betan live performance system, had a lot to say, and seemed to take Menolly for some sort of charity case. Someone coming from a regressive culture, perhaps.

The woman didn’t seem to mean it _badly_ , and was a fount of information.

Menolly learned that even the simplest form of music, sitting yourself down on a corner and playing, was incredibly complicated on Beta Colony, and surrounded by rules. First you had to get your busker’s license, which involved a blind performance—

“What’s a blind performance?”

“It’s when you play in a room without the judges being able to see you. Helps omit bias when it comes to origin, gender, race, religion—real scientific.”

It seemed obvious in hindsight, but Menolly resolved to bring the idea back to Robinton. And of course, Sebell when they finally arrived home. There were certainly idiots like Master Morshal who would respond differently if they didn’t know who the musician playing was; she’d caught him praising her before, having heard her around the corner without realizing who it was, before he’d realized his “mistake”.

Then the woman went on to talk about bank accounts…which were a required thing for busking, as very few people carried pockets of hard currency on them.

“What’s a bank account?”

The older woman looked at her in sympathy. “It’s a way to store your money, so only you can have access to it. _Only_ you—no husband, father, brother, employer—“ and she rattled off a series of people who might want to control a powerless person through their finances. “—gets access. And when you have an account, then people here who enjoy your performance can give you a tip, and you’re not walking around with your pockets jangling and rustling loudly for all the pickpockets.” She reached out a finger and tapped Menolly on a shoulder for emphasis. _“Real economic freedom_. So you can get away from anyone at home who treats you poorly. Remember that. If _you_ control your own bank account, _you_ control your own freedom.”

Except, one had to _get_ a bank account first, and that required identification—Menolly reflected AIVAS had been wise to advise them to create some.

And _then_ (the woman said) you got an appointment with the local council for a blind performance, and if you got a majority vote in your favor, then they issued you a permit, but you could only use your permit within the local council’s jurisdiction. If you moved to another area, or simply wanted to busk there, you had to go through the entire process again. Depending on the area, it could be very competitive…and some areas wouldn’t issue you a permit if you already had one for another area. People usually started with applying in the richest neighborhoods, the places where people tipped well, and gradually worked their way out to poorer ones. That way, you ended up playing in the most prestigious area possible, making the most money possible.

“Honestly, it makes me wish I was Cetagandan,” the woman said with a grimace.

“Why is that?” Menolly asked, stroking Beauty absently.

“If they’re in good standing with their embassy, they get to go around setting up _wherever_ , whenever, no council appointments or permits needed. It’s considered ‘cultural outreach’ or ‘cultural education’.”

“Maybe I need to talk to my embassy,” Menolly said with a grin. Or rather, push that they establish one as soon as possible. “That does seem an easier way to go about things.”

The woman laughed. “Hey, if you can, go for it. We shouldn’t let the Cetagandans monopolize cultural outreach. What’s face paint _anyway_ compared to that shiny creature on your shoulder?” It was the first time she’d referred to Beauty, a refreshing contrast to all the other people who tried to sneak in hands to pet. “But if it works for you, come back here and buy me a drink, will you?”

Menolly smiled. “I will. Are you always here?”

“Thursday through Sundays, sure,” the woman said.

“Do you like wine?” Menolly asked.

“Wine, beer, rum—I like it all.”

“I’ll bring you some Benden wine,” Menolly promised.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had that brand before!”

Hopefully it wouldn’t disappoint. Menolly said her good-byes, memorized the name of the transit stop, and the name of the musician, then she went on her way, and the musician started playing again.

Eventually, her stomach started to growl, and Menolly stopped in a park, which resembled a great hall with a soaring roof studded with panels that simulated natural sunlight. It had fantastic fountains spitting balls of water into the air to magically float for a few seconds before plummeting down with a noisy slap. She took out the food she’d brought with—ship fare, unfortunately, which made it incredibly boring compared to the things other people purchased and ate from the Gather stalls surrounding the area. But if Piemur was successful finding a way to sell some of their cargo, and if _she_ were successful by either figuring out the busking thing, or selling her pre-recorded songs, she’d be trying out all these Betan delights soon enough.

Besides, there was so much to look at and listen to that she’d probably ignore her tastebuds regardless of what she ate.

When she was finished—and had shared half of it with her firelizards, who deigned to join her for nibbles of food they actually weren’t all that hungry for—she dusted crumbs off of her skirt, and packed the dirty box back in her bag.

Then, she started walking again.

Eventually, she learned that the transit stations _did_ run out, or perhaps turned another direction when she wasn’t paying attention, instead of following this street, and she also learned when it ran out, signs went up in windows, and fewer people walked by. (Luckily Beauty reported nobody was following her.)

Three doorways in a row had _For Sale_ signs. In second-story windows, signs flashed _For Rent_ in catchy colors. Menolly paused in front of one large window display, lit up with dozens of properties for rent or sale in squares. Each one rotated through the view on the street, then through interior shots devoid of furniture or accoutrements, and finally gave a price or said _Contact for details_.

Suddenly, a door slid open, and a husky herm close to Robinton’s height and Master Fandarel’s width poked their grey-haired head out. 

“Hello there,” they said in a light alto voice that was _completely_ at odds with Menolly’s expectation of them. After a startled half-second of reflection, she supposed she’d expected a deep basso from their large body…although, she wasn’t sure _why_ she’d have that bias to begin with, never having met a herm before. The herm, unaware of her thoughts or simply ignoring what flashes of them made it to her face, said, “Got any questions about the properties?”

“Oh, I’m just looking,” Menolly said.

“I know,” the herm dimpled. “My desk is right behind the window.”

Menolly focused through the glass, and realized that _yes_ , there was a desk _right there_. The herm had probably gotten a _great_ view right up her nose! “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t see you. I didn’t mean to be rude!”

“You’re not rude at all. You’re from out of town and clearly from far away; how could you be rude?”

The phlegmatic response was in her favor, so Menolly decided not to protest further. Instead, she asked a question: “Why are all the properties cheaper this way,” and Menolly pointed further down the street. “Than the other way?”

The herm sighed, a long sound that ended on a little chuckle. “Oh, the forgotten promises of elected officials,” they said. “Thirty years ago, they promised to extend the transit line this way. Gave a bunch of permits out via lottery to start stone-cutting and everything. People even started drilling. Bzzzzz,” and the herm jiggled around, demonstrating what drilling must have felt like to the existing residents in the area. “Then the woman who made all those promises got voted out, and her successor was a bit of a traditionalist, doesn’t like cutting stone or expanding. So we never got the extension that was promised. The walk down here is a bit brisk, and the street’s not rated for float bikes or anything like that. People don’t like to walk too far to get anywhere. Location, location, location as they say.”

Menolly considered. “An hour’s walk is not so far,” she said.

“Planet-born?”

“What?”

“You grew up on a planet?”

She nodded.

A chuckle. “Your conception of ‘long distances’ is very different than ours. Technically this is a planet too—but we’re a lot closer to spacers in a way, being underground and all. Hey, speaking of planets, what’s that creature on your shoulder?”

Menolly introduced Beauty to the herm, and Beauty was perfectly willing to submit to a head caress when it wasn’t done in a pushy, entitled manner. That Beauty did not respond to the herm in any sort of negative way or even _notice_ the herm was a herm made Menolly suspect the question of herms Impressing was making mountains out of nothing; if firelizards and dragons already Impressed to _humans_ , a species very different than any of the native Pernese fauna, the gender of the human likely didn’t matter much at all.

Beauty eventually had something catch her attention down the street, and she flipped off of Menolly’s shoulder and winged away. As she went, Menolly saw some pedestrians raise their wristcoms and portable coms to take photographs.

Then the herm from the real estate agency vanished inside their office for a moment, before returning with a comcard she could scan at any console if she stopped browsing and wanted to talk to them again. The little card was a pretty object that threw up holograms of a name and a code when held a certain way in the light.

In fact, it was so pretty that Menolly hesitated. “Do I pay you for this?”

“Heavens, no! No, no, I only get paid if I make a sale. That’s just my calling card. Free advertising, free as in you don’t have to pay me for that thing. I suppose _it_ is eye-catching—my brother designed it. Never would have been able to afford a design as nice as that otherwise!”

“I’ll pass it onto my embassy then,” Menolly said. “Thank you.”

The herm blinked at the word “embassy”, but didn’t question her further.

Then Menolly glimpsed a clock behind the herm on their office wall, and realized that it was much, _much_ later than she’d realized. She’d completely missed her rendezvous with Brekke and Piemur…although, considering neither Farli nor Berd had shown up to scold her, perhaps they were as time-lost as she was. “Oh, I have to go, I’ve completely missed my friends. Thank you again for the card.”

The herm cheerfully waved her off, having done what it could to turn a curious passer-by into a sales lead.

Menolly felt around her tunic for a scrap of hide and a grease-pen, and wished Beauty hadn’t flown off. She let out an ear-piercing whistle through her teeth—several people turned to look at her—and _willed_ Beauty to return, which she did, and then scribbled on her piece of hide. _Sorry I’m late. Where to meet?_

Then, a minute or two later, Beauty vanished _between_ again, the note tied around her leg.

#

They ended up meeting, an hour and a half later, back at the docks. And the first thing out of Piemur’s mouth as they walked in together was, “You know we’re being followed, right?”

Brekke said, “I didn’t notice anyone, although it’s hard to tell in these crowds.” She looked worried. “Was I? Berd didn’t say a thing. He mostly gossiped about the Healers at the clinic we visited.”

Menolly said, “I was approached by a woman, but Beauty hissed at her, and she didn’t follow.”

Jancis looked at Piemur and said, “With us, it was two men. But our firelizards made such a racket they stopped following once everyone turned to film the scene.”

Piemur said, “That was Jancis’ idea, to let them mob the fellows. They didn’t want their faces recorded, and _that_ commotion _guaranteed_ it. Caused them to run right off. Therefore,” and he rustled around in a bag made of plastic that stood out bizarrely on his arm, “I think we should all have these wristcoms. So we don’t rely on strangers recording things for us.” And he handed them out to Menolly and Brekke. Now that she knew to look, she realized he and Jancis were already wearing theirs.

Menolly took hers gingerly, and was surprised at how substantial it felt, and how finely it was made. Like the fine jewelry the Lady of the Hold might wear. “So you _were_ able to sell some things?”

Piemur grinned, Jancis grinned bigger, in pride. Piemur said, “AIVAS was flat out _wrong_.”

“Really? How so?” Menolly asked.

Flinging his arms wide to indicate the planet they were on, Piemur said, “No trees! Not a _single_ native tree! It’s nothing but sand!”

Jancis said, “All the trees here grow in pots. Wood is priceless. Even more precious than on Pern.”

Piemur nodded. “I almost wonder if we _could_ exchange marks for dollars…but anyway, there’s this auction house, right,” Piemur said. “For fine goods. Like, the stuff that Lords and Ladies buy. The best of the best of the best. All the big ranking people buy off this place.”

Jancis said, “They don’t _call_ themselves Lords or Ladies…but they are.”

Piemur nodded. “So I got my fanciest clothes on, right. The tunic I’d wear if I was soloing for Domick again.”

Piemur hadn’t soloed since his voice had broken—but Menolly wasn’t about to question him on why he had soloist’s finery still. Especially since he would have had to buy a new outfit for his adult height and size.

“And I went to Master Robinton and Lytol and asked—can I borrow something to impress? The Harper didn’t have much—Sebell’s wearing the piece he used to wear as Masterharper, now—but Lytol had all sorts of things stored away. So I dress up like I’m _pretending_ to be someone _else’s_ idea of Lord Jaxom, then Tuck, Swift, and Lytol did my hair up in oiled waves—“

Menolly found herself grinning.

“And I go out there, just _dripping_ in Bloodlines. And gold and jewels and everything. And I take one of the _small_ pieces we brought with us, and the data stick the Harper used with the dock authority, and just walked my way past this doorman, nose in the air, and pretended I was expected. Farli’s on my shoulder, all golden. Well, the appraiser is apparently half-Jacksonian, and appreciated my hustle, so I got an interview. And _then_ she saw what we actually had, and started drooling. We worked out a Deal—“

Menolly said, “Do you think the men who followed you were theirs?”

Piemur hissed. “I thought of that. We’ll see I guess. Jacksonians are supposed to be a wild bunch—but hold the Deal as sacred.”

If the appraiser was _half-_ Jacksonian, what was the other half?

“But anyway, we worked out a Deal, the auctioneer will get an agent’s fee, but we’ll be able to space out a portion of what we have over the next few months, build up _excitement_ you see, about the next thing we’ll put up for auction—“

“So you already made a ‘bank account’?” Menolly asked.

“Oh yeah. They took a drop of my blood!” and he showed Menolly the ball of his thumb, which was reddened from some sort of needle-mark. “But I set that up as a joint account with Lytol—”

As Piemur continued explaining his victories today in great detail, Jancis went first to Menolly, then Brekke, and made some configuration changes on the wristcoms, apparently to make sure they all synched together. To them she said, “AIVAS chose this model; it’s used by the Jacksonian Great Houses that don’t create their own custom wristcoms. AIVAS is going to push out an update to the firmware to make it even more secure…although for anything _truly_ important…”

Firelizards, of course. Speaking of which, Jancis sent something off with hers as they walked.

Menolly tuned Piemur out while he went on about what he’d accomplished. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate it, as they’d badly needed money to establish themselves; only that her mind was still churning through today’s events. The final wormhole, the examination of their ship by Betans. The talk with AIVAS about things she could barely breathe to Robinton, much less anyone else. AIVAS often educated towards a purpose; that he had told her those things at that time needed to be examined. Then they’d all gone out to get their first look at a different planet. The overwhelming Betan response to firelizards. Her thighs, rhythmically pulsing even when she stopped walking, so unaccustomed they’d become to gravity and travel.

Brekke, her new wristcom secured to her arm, fell back to walk next to Menolly. “Menolly, do you think you could put in a word with the Harper?”

“For what?” Menolly asked.

“We should _all_ visit the clinic for vaccinations.”

“That seems sensible,” Menolly said, as Jancis’ firelizard returned with something for her. “I’m sure he’ll agree.”

“I’m sure he’ll agree for _us_. It’s _him_ I’m worried about. Earlier, before you joined, Piemur said he tried to get the Harper to open that account, instead of Lytol. Because he’s the Masterdiplomat. But the Harper refused; he didn’t want his blood taken. Even though that’s standard practice for wildcat colonists who turn up looking to open accounts without Betan paperwork.”

Interesting.

“I think he should be checked by a Betan Healer all over. They know much more about pilot implants than I do, and have the diagnostic tools to look inside him that I could only dream of having.”

Brekke’s wording—only _dream_ of something—triggered something in Menolly. She said, “Don’t _dream_ of it, _plan_ for it. You’re our Healer. Be ambitious.”

“So you’ll get him to go?” Brekke said, misinterpreting her enthusiasm.

Menolly hesitated. “I think he should go, but not to just anyone. Only to someone…completely trustworthy. Perhaps we can see if you can _buy_ vaccines, and administer them to us yourself?” Blast, she _really_ wished Pern Healers were more advanced. Maybe that’s why AIVAS talked to her, to get her to temper Brekke’s completely well-intentioned, but lacking in information, recommendations. Menolly suspected there were some aspect of Eridani jump pilot implants that might be beyond Betan doctors, or at least radically different.

The other woman looked disappointed, but also resigned.

_“Find_ someone he can trust, Brekke,” Menolly suggested. “Maybe…maybe if I’m able to succeed with this music thing, we can _hire_ a Betan doctor. To treat us, and only us, and to tutor _you_.”

“…what was the purpose of me coming, if I can’t do what’s needed myself?” Brekke muttered.

“To get you training, of course. Be greedy and ambitious. I think,” Menolly said with a sigh, “That’s what _I_ plan on doing. Don’t leave all the shenanigans to Piemur. Or the Harper.”

_“What_ about my shenanigans?” Piemur said, pulling himself away from his and Jancis’ wristcoms, which had started talking to them in AIVAS’s voice.

“Leave some for the rest of us, you doofus,” Menolly teased, raising his voice.

Piemur looked perplexed, then turned back to his wife.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hit the end of my initial burst of inspiration, and had to stop to brainstorm again. Thus, delays.
> 
> In one of the AUs to this AU, Robinton got in a pretty bad fight with Miles, and it was completely cracky (oh my god so much crack!) and at odds with both characters, so I'm not doing _that_. But it put a lot of wheat in the mill. Now I just gotta grind it into flour and make a cake with it...instead of, say, an explosion in the kitchen with batter dripping off the ceiling light...


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robinton goes out to buy shoes and gets distracted. Never manages to buy those shoes.

* * *

**Chapter Six**

Menolly sprawled tiredly on a couch in the lounge, her thighs still twinging in phantom steps, and watched the Harper pace about excitedly.

“A slate! I know we stowed a large one, it must be somewhere. Piemur, Swift—please go find it before I go steal Betan sand to make a sandtable,” Robinton directed, pacing around the lounge where they were all gathered.

Piemur jumped up—and nearly plummeted ten feet down the ladder hole in freefall reflex, if Swift hadn’t been Swift and grabbed him.

“Yeah, thanks,” Piemur said when the other harper released the scruff of his tunic. “Would’ve been the _second_ time I’ve done that—“ With excessive care, he navigated himself down the ladder, and Swift followed.

_“You_ need a slate,” Menolly teased her master after they vanished. “With all these comconsoles and screens and wristcoms about. But, a slate.”

“That’s _exactly_ why I need a slate,” Robinton declared, wagging a finger about. It was a mark of a charismatic man that he could get away with that wagging finger. “Less work for my brain when it’s already juggling so much.”

Menolly almost said, _What, with AIVAS doing all the work?_ but the room _wasn’t_ full of dumb people, so that would let his secret out. So she gave him a cryptic smile, and fiddled with her new wristcom. It had something called a _streaming radio_ , which played music. She set it to the top twenty songs of the month (there were so many musicians on Beta that new songs were debuted _daily_ ), and set the volume to _low_ so her mind would absorb the sounds during the meeting.

Piemur and Swift brought a big slate upstairs, and an easel to set it on, and Robinton wrote a large number in Betan dollars on one side, and made columns of Musts, Needs, and Wants.

“Master,” Menolly said, when he had paused and was surveying his work.

Robinton twitched his eyebrows at her.

“Did Tuck or Swift notice the two of you being followed?”

“Piemur said something about that. Two men?”

“For them. I ran into a woman, but Beauty scared her off.”

Lytol, who had been frowning at the comconsole, remarked, “Zair attracted attention when we went out.”

“As did Beauty and the rest. But this one was different. She was very beautiful, strikingly so, and at first I thought I was just…” Menolly sighed. “… _reacting_ as I do when one of the students gets catty with me. It’s so wearing, and I’m not perfect. I get short-tempered.”

Robinton grimaced in sympathy.

“She wasn’t actually catty, she just _looked_ like she could be. But I just realized now—I reacted like that because she reminded me of a Weyrwoman.”

That got both Robinton and Lytol’s attention.

“Something about the way she held herself,” Menolly said. “Beyond looks. Looks were just the easier thing to identify.”

Robinton suggested, “A woman in command?”

“Perhaps. But was she smart enough not to follow me once Beauty hissed at her, or did I totally mistake the interaction?”

Tuck, who had been quietly staring into his wristcom and fiddling with it said, “I’d trust your gut. This place is swarming with agents, and we need to keep our eyes open. It probably won’t escalate to violence, Betans don’t seem to duel at all, but we have no idea who _any_ of them are loyal to. I think you’ve been around people like me—and Masterharper Sebell—enough to realize when someone’s rubbing you that way.”

Menolly liked Tuck a lot, for his eccentric mix of silliness and complete pragmatism. They had few skills in common, Tuck being the most unmusical of Harpers, but it was strangely warming to be on the receiving end of his praise, no matter how faintly.

In a lower corner of the slate, Robinton listed the three mystery people with question marks about their loyalties. “I hope _all_ your encounters today weren’t frightening?” he asked Menolly hopefully. Then he cocked his head the slightest bit for a second. AIVAS was speaking to him. He didn’t seem to be wearing his wristcom, either…did he even need one, now that the rest of them had the device?

Menolly said, “No. I did learn that singing on a street corner for your supper is incredibly complicated, if you are Betan. But given we’re not, I was also told that if we have an embassy, Harpers will be able to play, as long as they’re associated with the embassy. I’m told it would be considered ‘cultural outreach’.”

“Ha,” Lytol said, giving Robinton a look. “So we kill two birds with one stone.”

Robinton sighed.

Lytol said, reading from his screen with judicious paraphrasing, “There are three ways embassies can be recognized by Beta Colony. The first is when a majority of other recognized systems also recognize the new system as its own sovereign entity. This is one of those voting things again…isn’t it?”

Robinton shrugged.

“The second is via a Significant Act of military or economic might. Waging war or peace, or having demonstrated and considerable economic activity not otherwise governed by another entity. The multiple Jacksonian houses each have their own embassies this way. And the third is by ‘genetic enclave’. This is how longstanding minorities of certain worlds get their embassies even if the majority already has one; genetic proof that they’ve been interbreeding largely with one another for centuries.”

“I still don’t understand how that last option works,” Robinton said. “How is ‘longstanding’ determined without Records to back it up? And if records are shared, how do they detect forgery?”

“Something about molecular clocks,” Lytol replied.

AIVAS spoke. “Earth-descended DNA accumulates small but steady mutations or change over time, which can be measured to estimate the age of a population, or if a very long timeframe is involved, such as evolutionary scales, when it diverged from the parent species. It can also be used to ‘fingerprint’ a population.”

Lytol said, “So we go, we get poked, and then we establish our embassy without revealing our economic or military power. Because we have none. It’s a bluff. I’d have assumed you’d _like_ that sort of thing, Harper.”

Robinton seemed lost in thought for a moment, and Menolly interpreted it again as him speaking to AIVAS privately. Then Robinton said, “I may be…er…classified as ‘altered’ at this point, due to the Eridani jump pilot implant I have. How many _natural_ samples are needed for confidence that we are a ‘genetic enclave’?”

Brekke eyed Menolly from across the room, but Menolly agreed that if AIVAS had altered Robinton on this level as well, they didn’t want to give out Robinton’s blood freely. So she purposefully did not take the hint to pressure her master to go to a clinic.

“They want at least five individuals unrelated in the first degree,” Lytol said. “Which, apparently, sometimes difficult for _some_ groups to procure.” He snorted. “Where is everyone from? Born, I mean.”

_Everywhere_ , it turned out. 

Menolly of course was from Half-Circle Sea Hold, in Nerat, the product of seaholders marrying seaholders marrying seaholders for generations. 

Robinton had been born and raised in the Harper Hall at Fort, but his sire had been of the Telgar bloodline, and his mother from the commoners of Southern Boll. (Not that it mattered, he reminded them; he couldn’t be included in this genetic inventory.)

Lytol was originally from High Reaches, one of the few non-Oldtimer Benden-era dragonriders of the eighth interval who had _not_ been weyrbred but Searched. 

Tuck was from Keroon. 

Jancis had been born at the Smithcrafthall at Telgar, but like Robinton, her parents and grandparents were from several different places, recruited into the Smithcraft, and then relocated to the main Hall due to their talents. 

Swift was Bitran—and was so reluctant to say any more than that that Menolly realized, after studying his profile, that he was likely related to the former Lord Sigomal, who had kidnapped Robinton in an Abominator plot, and been banished for it. Clearly he’d worked hard to overcome such a severe disadvantage, and was trusted by Sebell to be posted here.

Brekke and Piemur were from small obscure holds that had relatively little migration; Brekke had been Searched by Benden Weyr, and Piemur had likewise been unexpectedly recruited into the Harper Hall for his childhood treble. AIVAS thought they were good examples of “rural” genetics and landlocked endogamy (as opposed to Menolly’s traveling seaholder blood).

“They wouldn’t recognize me,” Brekke sighed.

Piemur briefly thought about his home hold, and laughed. “Ovines, and wool, and more ovines.”

“We have a very good widespread sample then,” Lytol mused.

Robinton fretted, “I see why this is the best of available options…but I do _not_ want to make a habit of this. We do not need the idea of _bloodlines_ being significant reinforced. Of all our customs, that one needs to die out.”

Lytol said, “It’s just the one embassy, Harper. Once we establish ourselves, our relevance as diplomats will be self-evident, and we won’t have to resort to loopholes.” His brown eyes darted over the comconsole. “But look at this. Once we are established, and have come to occupy a building or grounds, then Pernese law, not Betan, will hold sway there. We’d be autonomous. Harper, how would the Charter apply to a Pernese embassy on another planet that isn’t Pern?”

“An interesting legal question,” Robinton said, and pondered the question for a few breaths. Menolly knew he was consulting his word-for-word memory of Pern’s Charter, which all Harper Masters had to memorize. “The Charter does briefly cover other locations, like the moons. We used to think it was an Ancient whimsy, but in retrospect, we underestimated their abilities. And our own,” he said, waving a hand at their current situation. “I suppose an embassy would be considered a sub-Crafthall of the Diplomat Craft, which would mean the senior Craftmaster would run it, unless some matter of Charter rights came up that would boost an issue to arbitration with a Harper, or the jurisdiction of the local Lord Holder.” 

“The local Lord Holder can’t be the Betans,” Lytol said. “Even if it is their planet. Otherwise this document would not state embassy land is considered as a part of the embassy’s homeland.”

Menolly, seeing a simple solution, said, “Lytol, you’re the Lord Diplomat. Like a Lord Warder, but for embassies on foreign soil. Robinton is the Masterdiplomat, in charge of diplomacy-related Craft, while _you_ act as the Lord Holder, running the operation of the hold, and being the local Lord.” The two men looked pensive, but receptive. She added, “If we make other embassies on other planets, perhaps you are then the Lord Diplomat of all those smaller Embassy-Holds, and they are run by Diplomat-Holders, who report to the Masterdiplomat on matters of Craft, but to the Lord Diplomat in matters of holding. Or perhaps each embassy gets its own Lord Diplomat, and you run a small galactic conclave of embassy-lords.” She shrugged.

Robinton said to Lytol, “The formalizes your effective rank quite nicely.” He grinned at the rest of the group. “I was wondering how to do that.” 

Lytol, as the _former_ Lord Warder of Ruatha, and _former_ brownrider, _technically_ only still held onto the ambiguous rank of Journeyman among the Weavers. A bit misleading, especially to outsiders, as it suggested he was of equal rank with Piemur or Swift, and of lesser rank than Menolly, Tuck, or Jancis. But Lytol had been reluctant to call himself a Master Diplomat, having never been voted in by any council of Masters.

Robinton spoke. “AIVAS, Lytol is now Lord Diplomat of Beta Hold. Or will be, once a Beta Hold exists. Menolly said so, therefore it’s true.”

Menolly felt herself turn red. Then she reminded herself— _ambitious_ , right? Not that they _actually_ believed she could hand out a hold to someone. The Harper was simply teasing her.

“I don’t get a say in this, do I?” Lytol asked.

“Shards, _I_ don’t want it,” Tuck opined. _“Take_ it, or we might have to do something strange like _voting_ in a new Lord. That’s _way_ too Betan for me.” His false-Betan accent flared into life again, briefly.

_“You_ vote every time a new Journeyman intends to walk the tables for Mastery,” Robinton said dismissively.

“Excuse you, _sir._ I mostly abstain, if you properly recall. How do I fairly vote from the middle of nowhere on the mastery capabilities of a Harper I’ve never met? Now someone like _Swift_ is another matter—” and he gave his junior partner a vulpine smile.

Having another thought, Menolly scrabbled around in a pocket of her skirt as she lay on the couch. She pulled out the holographic card, and, the glitter catching his eye, Robinton came over to take it from her.

“What’s this?” he asked, turning it from side to side, watching the hologram shimmer about.

Menolly said, “I met someone selling space, in an under-developed part of the city. The herm told me there was plans for a transit system that dried up, so holds were started but not finished. Betans don’t like to walk, so nobody really wants to buy now that the transit system isn’t being developed in that direction. If we find a suitable place, and maybe even rent or buy the surrounding places, we can get several Crafthalls established on Beta Colony, selling goods. I suppose we can make a little corner of Pern there. Like a family clan, moving into a section of one of the large holds.”

“But what _is_ this?” Robinton asked again. “Is it art?”

AIVAS replied. “It’s a comconsole address. On a very artful calling card. We contact that person listed on it if we wish to speak to this person about purchasing real estate.”

Still turning the card about, Robinton said, “Would it be diplomatic for _me_ to have calling-cards like this?”

Menolly knew he hadn’t actually overlooked what she’d said; Robinton’s apparent focus on trivial things occasionally obscured he was thinking on other matters very deeply. Camouflage of seeming scatter-brained. “The herm selling real estate has a brother who made that. Perhaps you can ask their brother.”

Slowly Robinton walked back to the table with the comconsole, and handed the card to Lytol. Lytol also looked at it for a long moment, before pocketing it.

Robinton stood around for a moment, proclaimed, “I want twinkling cards,” and proceeded to add it to the slate under _Wants_. Then he added _Embassy_ under _Must Haves_ and _Bloodletting_ under _Needs_.

Piemur said, “Oh come on, the bank account was only a needlethorn prick. _Bloodletting…”_

“Always trust a Harper to be dramatic,” Jancis said, and it was ambiguous which harper she was talking about.

“I sure hope this ship isn’t bugged,” Tuck commented.

Robinton glanced over his shoulder at him.

“You wrote _bloodletting_ , right there, for all to see. Photographs don’t carry _context_. They _already_ assume we’re quasi-barbaric. They nearly confiscated my _eating knife_.”

Menolly wondered what _that_ story was.

AIVAS said, “We are not bugged, but Tuck is right.”

“Squeamish weaklings,” Robinton accused them in the mildest of tones, but wiped away the word _bloodletting_ with his sleeve and wrote in, _Pokey-pokey_ in his elegant, flowing script.

“Great job,” Menolly said. “That’s _very_ Betan.”

Laughs.

Brekke eventually brought up, under _Must Haves_ with a significant look at Robinton, that Betan clinics would vaccinate them for free, such a thing being for the greater good of the planet. Robinton wrote it down, oblivious that she intended very hard for _him_ to be included.

Then under his own accord, Robinton wrote after a hesitation under _Need,_ “purified and bio-available metals and isotopes”.

AIVAS clarified, “I need those to do repairs with. Betan sources will be more pure than Pernese sources at this point in time. However, we will order enough that any Craft that needs it can take from these stores.”

“Repairs of what?” Jancis said with a frown.

“Our navigation system.”

Menolly judged that an euphemism, and glanced at Robinton, but he had moved on to write under _Needs_ “tools to complete ship maintenance”.

After that, he moved over to _Wants_ and added “artificial gravity”.

Jancis said, “I suppose wanting that very badly doesn’t actually make it a need?”

The Harper said, “I’m afraid not. Piemur will need to learn how to levitate on his own, or use the ladder like a normal person.”

When it became clear nobody else was going to speak, Menolly did. “This is probably more of a _need_ than it sounds, but clothing. Beta’s really warm. At least on the streets. I probably can’t get away with blending in, my firelizards will give it away, but most of you could.”

Lytol nodded his approval. “She’s right.”

“How do the firelizard shoulder pads work, though?” Swift asked. “If you’re wearing a sarong?”

The entire room fell silent, imagining bare-chested sarong-wearers with leather firelizard shoulder pads strapped to their upper bodies.

“New fashion at the Orb?” Tuck said wickedly.

“What was that you were saying about _context_ again, Tuck?” Robinton said.

“I’m sure Swift and I will _happily_ protect your body. While being half-naked, wearing straps. Belt knives on one hip, stunners on the other. We’ll give those Barrayarans a run for their barbarism, eh? Theatrically!”

Menolly bit her tongue so she wouldn’t inform the room that she’d actually _like_ to see that very much, thank you. Although she quickly sobered when it became apparent the rebuttal would be a comment about _her_ wearing straps all over, due to needing pads for _all_ her firelizards to cling to. Or something.

Robinton rubbed at his shorn hair, wearily. “Lytol? Attire is your department.”

“Tapestries,” Lytol said.

“I don’t see how wearing tapestries would help with the heat issue.”

“No, Harper. My specialty was _battle tapestries_. _Never_ everyday attire.”

“So you’re saying you don’t know how to make that specific combination presentable.”

“Yes, I’m saying exactly that.”

“Well, I’m sure we can deal with a few scratches for diplomacy. Or do a better job of keeping their claws trimmed, regardless of how much they hate the process.” Robinton added _Betan clothing_ to needs. “What else?”

#

Night fell on the docks. Just as swiftly as it fell, it was countered by brilliant artificial lights.

All of Robinton’s Har—er, Diplomats—were home, safe and sound. (Mostly. The agents Menolly, Piemur, and Jancis possibly encountered worried him.) Cargo had been successfully sold for marks, and via the comconsole, AIVAS had been able to add Robinton as a user to the account, no blood draw required. Earlier, Tuck, Swift, and Lytol had gone out a second time, and had gotten an array of sarongs in different colors, weights, and fabrics.

Interestingly, they’d _also_ discovered a place selling something called “ship knits”, which were somewhat culture-neutral throughout the galaxy, as well as jumpsuits, which workers, navy, and survey wore commonly enough on Beta Colony.

With AIVAS’s help, and Lytol’s blessing as a much better alternative to sarong-and-leather-straps, they had even gained the correct sizes for every crew member in multiple colors.

For everyone, black with a golden _alla breve_ on the right shoulder, representing _The Mastersinger Merelan’s_ jump ship status, and their rank down the left arm (MASTER or JOURNEYMAN), in plain words for foreigners who couldn’t read rank knots.

For most, jumpsuits in Harper blue with the Harper Hall insignia on the right shoulder (AIVAS had had it in his memory banks), and rank in white down the left arm.

For Brekke, a Benden red jumpsuit with Benden Weyr’s black II within a diamond, as well as a white jumpsuit with the purple Healer caduceus within a white diamond, showing her to be a weyrhealer.

Jancis received two rust-red jumpsuits, one bearing a white insignia with a scarlet anvil for her status as a Smith, and the other with an insignia of a scarlet computer chip within a white circle for the Computercraft.

Everyone also received Diplomat jumpsuits in silver, with the new Diplomat insignia of a blue Hold shield, lavender Crafthall circle, and pink Weyr diamond on a white background within a larger circle. The shield, circle, and weyr symbols were empty, as nobody was currently aligned with a particular posting, but Robinton imagined in the future they’d show the symbol for the assignment of the wearer, whether it was a galactic embassy, or Pernese hold, hall, or weyr.

Robinton decided he was pleased that they’d done all this shopping, for he’d certainly been overdressed in his tunic, but would have felt underdressed in only a sarong. He still was not up to his ideal weight either, as freefall had not encouraged the proper formation of muscle, and that ghost of vanity about his appearance still haunted him.

The ship was eerily silent as Robinton selected his Harper blue jumpsuit, and dressed. He was used to the humming of life support, or the engines, but now they were docked on a planet, neither were needed.

Examining himself in the mirror, Robinton was vaguely surprised the jumpsuit fit; no cold inches of wrist or ankle jutted out. Even the back of his neck was covered, without any need to don a cravat. There was excess fabric in the chest and thighs, but he’d fill that out eventually if he did get into the habit of full-gravity nighttime jaunts.

He pulled on his boots, then sighed when he looked at himself in the mirror again. _Shoes_ , he said to AIVAS. _We forgot to get shoes._ His well-worn boots didn’t match the jumpsuit at all. How very odd that a Harper’s boots didn’t match a Harper blue jumpsuit…

 _We can get them tonight,_ AIVAS said. _Stores are still open._

_This late?_

_An underground city doesn’t have to sleep._

Robinton felt vaguely distressed for the Crafters having to man the booths, instead of being home with their families, but as there was no way he could change anything, he simply sighed, and said to Zair, “You coming?”

The bronze, curled up in a puddle of blankets, opened his outer lids, yawned, then went back to sleep.

Moving as quietly as he could, Robinton slipped out of his room, and through the empty lounge. He climbed down the ladder, and gracefully padded past the closed doors two his crew’s quarters, and through the door into the cargo bay.

He was adjusting the strap of his bag across his chest when Menolly appeared, also dressed in a Harper blue jumpsuit. Her blue firelizard, Uncle, nearly blended in against it.

And somehow, despite being full-body (unlike a sarong), the jumpsuit did things for her figure that he was embarrassed (and surprised) to note. Looking away, he reached down and adjusted the knife in his boot so it stopped digging into his ankle and said cheerfully, “I _thought_ I’d snuck by too easily.”

“You really think I’m going to let you go out alone?” Menolly asked. “Harper, what’s the _point_ of bringing Tuck and Swift all this way if you won’t let them do their jobs?”

“Oh, they need their beauty sleep too. Besides, who do you think helped _train_ Tuck?” He smiled winsomely at her.

She was not winsome’d.

“Do _you_ want to come?” he asked, as a way to distract her. “I won’t be alone then.”

Menolly hesitated. “Where are you going?”

“To buy some shoes.”

AIVAS said, _Tell her the whole truth._

 _Why?_ he asked, surprised. Then he felt silly, and guilty. He _always_ told Menolly the truth. Except…he didn’t want to reveal this rather ugly thing about it…

_If she becomes a jump pilot, she’ll have to go through this herself._

…oh. With new understanding, he gave her a swift probing look, as if he could somehow look through her and determine _why_ she’d want to do to herself what _he’d_ done to himself…but he couldn’t read minds, and all he saw was her current skepticism about his Quest to Buy Shoes.

Giving in, he motioned her over.

She came.

“In confidence,” he murmured, “Those bio-available metals were more of a _Must Have_ than _Need_. I’m not fully healed. But I’d rather do this in privacy.”

Uncertainty flickered in her eyes. “Do you want me to lea—“

“AIVAS says _you_ should come.” He studied her as he said this.

Immediate understanding. “Ah. I see.” She hesitated, then she went to one of the lockers, and got a stunner out of it, attached it to a hip.

He didn’t question whether she knew how to use it; given the time she’d been spending with Tuck, she obviously did. Better than _Robinton himself_ did, certainly. Menolly had always been practical when not performing _._

Without further words, they cycled through the airlock—which wasn’t really cycling, just opening and closing doors—and emerged onto the artificially-illuminated dock.

#

Menolly was surprised Robinton moved quickly and confidently down the street. He hadn’t been on Beta Colony any longer than she had, and definitely outside of the ship less, but he didn’t swivel his head around to gawk at all the oddities and delights.

Then she noticed his eyes darting intelligently every which way, lingering more on people than on objects or shops, and realized he was simply _incognito_. _Look like you belong. Don’t gawk. Move like you have business to attend to._ Menolly kept pace with him—he slowed slightly when he realized she was forced every ten or twenty steps into trotting—and they moved through the city with far less harassment than she’d had earlier today. To outsiders they looked like two spacers now, instead of two lost naïve foreigners from a backwards planet.

…hopefully her firelizards would obey her command to stay _put_ and not ruin the illusion. (Uncle nuzzled under her chin, thankful to have alone-time with _her_ and away from _them_.)

At the first transit station, Robinton bought some sort of card for himself, and for her, from a machine. His motions were more languidly methodical than inept, and Menolly suspected AIVAS whispered things to him. 

Then he summoned a bubble-car, and once they were inside facing each other over the central console, Robinton used the comconsole to direct them to an “industrial bio-supply” warehouse.

Then he sighed, spread his long arms over the back of his seat, and grimaced at her. “This is comfortable, but it’s disconcerting I’m not telling it where to go. I feel like I should lean back, and—“ he raised his hands and conducted an imaginary orchestra, then let them fall again. “Somehow, I got used to that. Funny how quickly that became my normal.”

The reminder of his horrible illness made her react poorly, but she hid the reaction. It wasn’t his fault his phantom motions had left nightmarish memories in her subconscious. “So you’d have us doing flips on exit, scaring the local authorities?” she teased, covering her unreasonable fear.

Robinton looked rueful. “Our ancestors were more militarized than I realized. I suppose it should have been self-evident; they created the Weyrs, after all. Even named one after an admiral. But on the other hand, it did keep that misguided mercenary fleet from catching up to us. Otherwise we might have been on the wrong side of a pack of fools with hair-triggers before the Betan navy could get us out of it.” He gazed out the window of the bubble car at their surroundings like he hadn’t allowed himself to do on foot. Then he said, “Mercenary fleets,” and made a _tch_ sound against his teeth. “Are they the galaxy’s Holdless?”

“Maybe we should see more of the galaxy before deciding on that.”

He gave her a long look. Then he said, “So. Given the means and resources to go anywhere…where would _you_ Journey? ”

“Wherever the wind takes me?” Menolly asked. “Although I suppose that doesn’t work in vacuum. Wherever the stellar wind takes me?”

“All alone?”

…yes. But she felt reluctant to say that.

Perceptively, Robinton voiced it for her. “Alone is very tempting. _Was_ very tempting. I could have gone on and on and on, after I did that first jump.” He smiled. “But, my responsibilities brought me back. And my people. I couldn’t ask for a better crew, but I admit the tight quarters are wearing. And the observers.”

“Observers?”

“Watching me jump.”

“You could kick us out,” Menolly said, feeling guilty for doing something she hadn’t realized he disliked.

“And _deny_ you an experience of space?” Robinton said. “Pft. That would be incredibly selfish of me. Besides…AIVAS says you want to be a jump pilot.”

“So much for AIVAS being discreet,” she said.

AIVAS spoke, through her wristcom. “Robinton’s sudden plunge into it was abnormal, and not what I would have wished if circumstances had permitted otherwise. It’s preferable if jump pilots go into it better-informed, have at least _some_ type of Apprenticeship.”

Menolly blinked, looked at Robinton. “So I’m your Apprentice twice-over?”

“Technically, you were my _sire’s_ Apprentice, but _my_ Journeywoman,” Robinton said. “Also, I’m hardly a Master jump pilot. AIVAS helps me cheat my way through it.” Rubbing his face with a hand, Robinton said, “So you really have no destination in mind?”

“I barely know Beta, and me piloting would be a long way off…right?”

“If we form an embassy here, and I am called upon to actually be diplomatic, our ship will sit gathering dust. That’s an incredible waste of a resource. Irresponsible, even, given how little time we have, and how much we have to do. Flat-out _irresponsible_ to leave it sitting. But if you are serious about being a pilot—even after _this_ errand, and it may very well change your mind—then we could run that ship wherever we needed it.” He smiled tiredly. “AIVAS says, people who do what I do—manage—usually are _not_ jump pilots themselves. Simply because the implant goes unused, and because wormholes knock you out for hours, and that’s wasted time that could be used on other things, for anyone whose main purpose is to run around putting out fires.” He studied her. “Or would you rather manage?”

“I would rather _create_ than manage,” Menolly said. “No offense.”

He grinned.

“And I enjoy Journeying. It feeds the creative well. My music always revives itself after a good Journey.”

“Anything yet?”

“Oh, the creative well has turned into a typhoon,” she said with a laugh. She was flooded in ideas. “I’m going to let that die down a bit. Otherwise it’s going to crash over everything, and I’ll be awash, clinging to a piece of wood—”

“—tying Harpers to broken masts,” Robinton said fondly.

“Why do you sound so _happy_ about that?” she said in exasperation. When they’d been all but wrecked on the Southern coast…not that she could have anticipated that storm, they’d learned later seasoned captains familiar with those waters had been wrecked with it…but the experience had been a nightmare for her. The Masterharper himself entrusting his life to her sailing. She’d been certain they’d both end up dead. And Robinton, bless him, had been less than useless. It was the one and only time she’d seen him entirely lose his marbles…on top of a severe bout of physical seasickness. Lashing him to the mast had been the only way to keep him from being flung overboard, and to keep him in her eyesight while she wrestled with the ship.

That trip was not on the top of her list of happy memories. (Although the aftermath had been much more tolerable.)

“Why do I sound _happy_ I lived? Through a shipwreck? That washed us onto an abandoned coast? Without any evidence of human habitation as far as the firelizard flies?”

“I wouldn’t have tied you to the mast if I hadn’t needed to!”

“Oh, it was fun,” Robinton said.

“You think being tied to a mast is fun?”

He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, then said lightly, “Jumping through wormholes is fun.”

Menolly was very aware that he couldn’t have shouted _Yes, I think being tied to masts is fun!_ any louder even if he’d actually said _yes_.

He’d _liked_ it.

She’d _always_ thought his light treatment of that dreadful experience had been due to… _shame_ , or something, over how he’d frozen up, panicked. Lost control. Had had to be physically restrained to get him out of her way while she _worked._

But what if it wasn’t? Or, what if it hadn’t _only_ been that, but something else, too?

Those Betan cultural videos made her realize, now, that maybe there was something else going on there. In addition to the rest.

_Blast_ it…the Harper was bloody _frustrating_. She was half-tempted to use this stunner on him, and let him wake up tied to something. Even then, she’d probably have to use some of that…what was it… _fast-penta_ to get him to _admit_ to anything.

“You know what we need to add to the list?” Menolly said, trying to get her mind firmly back on track.

From the look on his face, he could tell she was in a queer mood. “Hm?” he said, as lightly and neutrally as possible.

“Fast-penta.”

Robinton made a short, high-pitched noise.

AIVAS said, “She’s right. It makes torture obsolete.”

That wasn’t what she— _was_ torturing being done? Where? Menolly said, “…AIVAS?”

“Yes, Harpress?”

“…are you okay?”

“That was an in-joke,” Robinton murmured. “His deadpan is fantastic.”

“…are _you_ okay?” Menolly asked Robinton.

“Fast-penta won’t get me through the next few hours, so I don’t think torture is obsolete just yet,” Robinton said. “I really don’t look forward to this…”

How disingenuous. But also, her own fault for repeatedly forgetting that another thinking being was sharing his head…one more complex than a dragon, an _AI_ , which was probably saying all sorts of things that Menolly wasn’t privy to. Robinton wasn’t really a singular person, anymore…he was a duo.

Torture. What _was_ going on in their head?

And of course, it’s not like she hadn’t brought up fast-penta with something else entirely in mind…

Menolly suddenly felt as if she had too many thoughts to process, especially with this realization, so she let the conversation die, and peered out of the bubble car, alternating furious thought with gaping at Betan sights.

Most of the time, she only saw rock walls, but sometimes light would intrude, and she could see homes, businesses, pedestrians. Ads.

There were a _lot_ of ads for the Orb of Unearthly Delights. Ads about men, women, and herms, ads with people dressed up in elaborate costumes, ads with completely naked people without any costumes at all. Ads for “sex toys”. Ads for “sex bots”…

A sudden, bizarre idea blazed across her brain. AIVAS didn’t have his _own_ body…but could he, er, use a mechanical body? Dragons had their own bodies, after all…

Not even for _sex_ , she didn’t care about that. She _absolutely_ wasn’t thinking about sex with AIVAS.

(Except everyone knew dragons and firelizards _watched_ …)

(No! Shut up. Stupid brain.)

Really, there were true legitimate ways this could be an _actual_ good idea.

The idea that AIVAS could _look_ human, have two hands like a human, walk about like a human, interact with other humans as a human…wouldn’t that be very _useful_ for them? And for him? He’d mentioned he was intentionally hampered by a lack of ambition, but clearly he was also hampered by a lack of an easily-mobile body, to the extent that he had no choice but to go where Robinton did. The ship didn’t count, he needed Robinton to help operate that too.

She eyed Robinton, who’d gone into his own thinking fugue. But just as quickly, she decided if she was going to broach _that_ idea to AIVAS, she’d just wait until they were back and she could say it privately, not to Robinton’s face.

But it was a _good idea!_ Nobody had to _know_ the providence, right?

She imagined bringing it up in front of Jancis. Or Piemur. Or Lytol. Or Tuck. They all frowned in disappointment in her head, a conclave of shame.

Well, Tuck would call a spade a spade right out. _Why is AIVAS wearing a sex-bot?_ And nobody would question how Tuck knew, because clearly, he had some supernatural ability to go through an entire exabyte of “cultural videos” and would know things.

_They_ didn’t _matter_ though, did they? Only AIVAS’s opinion did.

And _aside from jump pilot desires_ …

…if he decided it was a dumb idea, he still was discreet, and nobody would be the wiser.

#

Robinton’s belly churned nervously as they exited the bubble car in a district filled with lab supply crafters and businesses. The air smelled peculiar here, sweet, but also medicinal, with an odd acrid undertone.

_Go left at that planter,_ AIVAS told him.

He did, Menolly followed. She no longer brooded, but gazed around them, thinking opaque thoughts. Did she think he was mad at her? He wasn’t sure. It wasn’t as if any of this was new between them, though. It didn’t anger him, it was simply…how things were. That chasm, about that one topic.

He reached over and squeezed her shoulder warmly, but she seemed unmoved by it, either positively or negatively. Caught in her thoughts then.

_Here we are_ , AIVAS said.

The sign for this business was very utilitarian, but brightly lit compared to the night-dimmed lights of the street, and when they walked in, an older woman greeted them brightly, and said, “Order for Mr. Robinson?”

“The name’s _Robinton_ ,” he said, ticking that _T_ again. “But yes.”

A series of about twenty plastic bottles were put before them, a few rather large, the rest varying in size between medium and very small. Some rattled. Robinton checked the labels of each one so AIVAS could confirm they were what he needed, then tucked them into his bag.

It felt odd to be leaving without marks exchanging hands, but AIVAS assured him they had paid, exchanging invisible dollars from their bank account to the business before Robinton had even left the ship.

“So, what was so torturous about that?” Menolly asked, as they walked down the street, in a different direction.

“That was still the easy part.”

“Where are we going now?”

“To buy milkshakes.”

“What are those?”

“Almost-melted ice cream,” Robinton said.

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

#

Milkshakes on Beta, it turned out, were flavored by something other than milk and sugar. And the only flavors Robinton recognized were strawberry and peppermint. So Robinton got one strawberry, one peppermint, and at AIVAS’s suggestion, two more of “vanilla”. And extra cups and a spoon.

Next to him, Menolly decided on coffee, because AIVAS claimed it was “somewhat” like klah.

Then they checked into a hotel room.

The clerk looked at Robinton, looked at Menolly, and looked at all their milkshakes, and said brightly, “Have fun!” as he handed their keycard to Menolly.

Robinton doubted he would, but he didn’t want to worry the young man, so he made no quip as they left.

The inside of this hotel reminded him of parts of Landing, except all the artefacts were new, and not discolored and pitted or scratched. Plastic was used extensively, as was stone, and some artwork was made of cleverly layered sand. Wood and wicker were nowhere to be seen, and some of the walls were covered in tapestries that weren’t really tapestries, for it was all a single neutral color, no patterns to be found. He touched a wall covered in it, and it was thin and scratchy to the hand, and seemed to be covering bare stone.

Menolly waved their keycard at a plate AIVAS indicated, a little light flashed, and the door clicked open. They stepped into pitch-black darkness, giving Robinton a strong urge to scramble around for glowpots, until AIVAS said from Menolly’s wristcom that there was a light switch a bit ahead to the left. Menolly found that, and Robinton shoved the door closed behind him with his shoulder.

The “hotel room” was relatively small, an all-purpose room, with a lavatory off one end. There was a desk with a comconsole, a table with two chairs, a bed, and a couch. On closer inspection, in a closet, there was a small refrigerator and freezer, which Robinton put two of the milkshakes into. The remainders he set on the table. While Menolly used the lavatory, Robinton pulled out half of his various bottles, and followed AIVAS’s instructions for combining various powders, beads, and pellets into an abysmal sort of horrifying milkshake sundae that Robinton suspected might put him off of peppermint for life.

Menolly eventually returned, and sat across from him and watched. She tried her coffee milkshake, made a dubious face, but cautiously sipped at it anyway.

Robinton said as a warning, “Some of the changes the implant made require me to eat things one would not normally eat. Metals and such. I’ve found it to be one of the most distressing parts of becoming a jump pilot. Humans really shouldn’t be consuming this,” and he waved his hand around before him.

“This is better than what you had access to before,” AIVAS said.

“Marginally,” Robinton allowed. Stirring his soupy milkshake—it had turned from a pleasant pale pink to a horrid grey-green with black specks and deteriorating white spheres—he scooped up a spoonful.

Chalky, bitter peppermint flooded his mouth. He only half-suppressed a gag, and shot to his feet to fill a cup with clean water from the lavatory. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to have nausea anymore?” he said, after swirling water around his mouth, and by dint of sheer will, swallowing instead of spitting.

“You are not affected by jump nausea, but that’s entirely different from a gag reflex,” AIVAS said. “Being able to vomit is necessary for purging the body of toxins. Unfortunately, what is necessary for me is considered toxic by your body’s instincts.”

Returning to the room where Menolly was, Robinton said, “The _only_ reason I’m doing this is because bringing me to Beta Colony only to kill me via poison is too convoluted for a real assassination attempt.” Grabbing another spoonful of vile potion, he ate it, and quickly chased it down with water. “I should have bought some spirits to burn away my sense of taste.”

“That’s not entirely a bad idea,” AIVAS said. “Especially as you are not alone as originally planned. I’d hoped the flavorings in the milkshake would hide it, but it seems peppermint was a bad choice of flavor.” A pause. “The hotel has a bar.”

Forcing another mouthful down, Robinton said, “A bar of what?”

“A bar is a sort of long counter you go to at a Gather to buy spirits, and other alcohol. It’s two floors down, in this building.”

Menolly rose. “I’ll go. I’ll be right back.”

“Ask them for their worst moonshine,” Robinton said. “And please, for the love of little lizards, _don’t_ bring me any wine.”

#

Menolly, bless her, returned with a large cut-glass bottle of amber liquid, and some shot glasses. Robinton swished the first burning mouthful around, letting it kill off his taste buds, then tried his terrible milkshake again. It was still bad, but easier to deal with. And as he worked through milkshake, water, and booze, the edges of his disgust eased, which made getting the mixture down easier. Sure, he was drinking filth—and that was fine! Everything was fine. This was fine.

And Menolly was lovely, even when she was mad at him. Menolly always took care of him. And he took care of her. It was good.

When he got to the second round of milkshakes, using strawberry, AIVAS had Menolly mix the ingredients from the various bottles instead.

AIVAS said, “While we’re out here, I’ve learned there is something you didn’t put on the list that could be useful. I will leave categorizing it as a _Must Have_ , _Need_ , or _Want_ up to you.”

“Hmm?” Robinton said, and considered drinking this next shot before the strawberry horror was even ready.

“I can’t leave your body. The process of giving you the implant tied me to you as it was supposed to, but I can control nearby chassis and temporarily offload some of my simpler processes onto them, to ease the burden. At Landing that was my former server. I could interface with the Yokohama, as well. And out here, it’s _The Mastersinger Merelan_.”

“Mmm,” Robinton said, and accepted the strawberry horror Menolly passed to him. This one had turned a moldy sort of pink, with small pebbles of gold, and some rusty-looking rice grains that dissolved, leaving pencil-like streaks. Robinton tasted it, and it actually wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t chalky, and the crunchy grain-type things were somewhat bearable. You could drink them at least, and avoid chewing. (He still followed every third or fourth swallow with a swig from the shot glass.)

“Beta Colony sells robotics that are human-shaped, and after looking at the specifications, I think I could modify one, and use that. This way, you could leave the ship without Tuck and Swift.”

“Come again?”

“A human-shaped robot. I could partially use that as a body; see out of its eyes, hear out of its ears. Use its hands, be a visual deterrent to thieves and such. As long as it was in reasonable proximity to you.”

“That’s a fantastic idea,” Robinton proclaimed.

Menolly had a funny look on her face.

“Isn’t it?” he asked her.

“Uh, yes, I think so,” she said weakly.

Licking his lips—then pulling a face because they were bitter, Robinton said, “Why, you could help Jancis make repairs on the ship. Or upgrades—the artificial gravity sounded like a finicky install.”

“Yes.”

“You could do things while I was asleep,” Robinton said. “Since you don’t sleep yourself.”

“Correct.”

“I could teach you how to play,” Robinton said. “Harp, maybe?”

“I hadn’t considered that, but yes.”

“When could we do this?” Robinton asked, then downed another shot. He felt warm and fuzzy.

“I could order through the comconsole, and we could have it delivered.”

“Fantastic. Go on and do that.”

A pause.

Menolly said, “Er…perhaps choose a unique face, AIVAS. So you don’t look like an existing model.”

“That’s very wise, Harpress. Incognito. Harper, what face should I have?”

“Pardon?”

“You’ll have to look at it the most often. What should I look like?”

“I have never made a habit of judging someone by their face,” Robinton said. “At least, I try not to.” He took a swig of strawberry horror. It was getting easier to drink, although the dark silt at the bottom of the cup was not appetizing.

“There’s an assessment test…that can be run on customers. It won’t work on me, being what I am, but with your permission? It’s a series of images I’d show you. A Betan test, to help customize the robot.”

Waving a vague hand, Robinton said, “Go ahead.”

“Let me see if I can proxy this on to you…ah, there we go,” AIVAS said.

Suddenly, in his mind’s eye, a face of a woman. No, a man. No, a herm. 

They flashed by slowly, then sped up, until a stream of faces went by, too fast to truly see. First, the men dropped out. Then the women. Only herms were left—or men and women close enough to herm that he couldn’t tell the difference at this speed.

Skin tone was light, then dark, then mid. Hair flashed gold, then black, copper briefly, then black, then brown, never quite stabilizing in color, or length. Brown, hazel, blue, and green eyes flashed past. Brown dropped out, then green. Blue differentiated into silvery-grey and blue-grey shades, and hazel began lightening and losing blue-greens until they weren’t hazel anymore but amber. Then blue eyes vanished entirely. 

Blond hair abruptly dropped out, as did bright copper, and he was swamped by black-haired herms until the black was abruptly rejected, even after having been favored. Long hair was rejected at the same time. Herms with short hair not much darker from their golden skin tone flashed by. Some had freckles, a thousand times more natural than the freckle-less expanse of pale white skin in _The Butcher’s Bride_.

The freckles abruptly stayed, darker rioting speckles over golden skin, and with it, the chestnut brown hair turned auburn-brown to match. Eyes were warm and amber. Nose was somewhat hooked, with a bump at the arch…a little like Menolly’s, a little like F’lar’s. The face leaned towards masculine, but a bit of baby fat—or feminine—softened it, and the freckles made a face that should have looked fairly mature from structure alone somewhat soft, dream-like.

As abruptly as it started, the images ended, and a warm-toned herm with a softened masculine face, short red-brown hair, and a strong nose stared at him through a riot of freckles.

It wasn’t what _he_ would have chosen for AIVAS, but…what should an AI look like anyhow?

“That was interesting, I don’t understand what happened there,” Robinton said.

AIVAS said, “It tested subliminal responses. The alcohol helped.”

“What was the result?” Menolly asked with a sort of divided fascination. Then she shook her head. “No, I want it to be a surprise.”

#

Robinton hadn’t meant to get plastered, but he _had_ meant to down the full dose of metallic elements AIVAS needed him to ingest, so he decided everything had been a success when four empty milkshake cups were lined up in front of him, even if the bottle of spirits was half-gone. And, he hadn’t thrown up _once!_

Warm and fuzzy and proud of himself, he turned to look for Menolly, but somehow she was across the room, opening the door.

“Sign here, please,” the delivery man said. “Also, I’ll need my float back once you’ve gotten it inside.”

Perplexed, Robinton watched as a plastic…coffin…with no markings beyond a few barcodes was tugged into the room on the float by Menolly. Then Menolly tried to move the coffin off of the float, and it all looked very _precarious_ …

_Perhaps help her by taking the other end?_ AIVAS suggested.

Ah, right. Robinton rose to his feet, and with great dignity, proceeded over to the tableau, and unceremoniously shoved the coffin-thing onto the floor with a thump.

Menolly gave him an appalled look, but the deliveryman stepped in and grabbed his now-free float, so Robinton proceeded to follow him, slowly and carefully, so he could close the door. “Now, what’s this thing?” he asked Menolly.

“…AIVAS’s new body. You don’t remember?”

“Oh, we were doing that for real?”

AIVAS said, from her wristcom, “You authorized it before you were drunk. Or rather, _this_ drunk.”

Robinton said, cheerfully, “Ahhh, so what do you think, should we trust sober-me? _I_ don’t trust that fellow…far too many thoughts whirling around in his head.” He paused. “What’s in the box?”

Menolly said, “Help me open it, and we’ll find out.

They knelt at either end of the box, and Menolly used her belt knife—she wouldn’t allow him to get his out—to cut through some tape (it got stuck to his hand, and then the trousers of his jumpsuit, which made him laugh; the Betans even made good, sticky _tape!)_ —and then they lifted the top off.

Robinton gasped. “There’s a person in here!”

“AIVAS, how drunk _is_ he?”

“Very.”

“Why is she covered in plastic?” Robinton said, and used his hands to tear clear plastic away from the face. Then he removed the opaque plastic from the rest of her body—

“—oh, no, she has tackle, she’s not a she after all,” he said, worried he’d offended…her… _him_ …her? His eyes darted from the finely formed breasts, covered in freckles, down to what lay _under_ such a sheer little scrap of…underwear? It contained _everything_ down there in a little mesh pouch, but _hid_ nothing, and it had a little yellow bow on the front.

He stared, fascinated. Men could wear lace underwear with bows?

“AIVAS,” Menolly wailed. “I thought you were supposed to come with _clothes_!”

“Those are clothes; that’s a bra, panties, and negligee.”

“They’re almost invisible! You can’t walk down the street in this!”

“According to Betan law, I can. I wouldn’t even be stopped.”

Something significant occurred to Robinton, and he waved his hand at Menolly to shush her. “AIVAS,” Robinton said. “You’re a hermaphrodite!”

“Yes, that’s what I selected.”

“But that’s wonderful!” Robinton said in delight. “Congratulations.”

Menolly boggled at him for a moment, then said, “AIVAS, I’d tell him to shut up, but you can read his mind anyway, so I’m not sure it’d make any difference to you.”

“It’s quite all right, Menolly. He’s genuinely happy about it.”

“…it’s not wonderful?” Robinton questioned, confused.

AIVAS said to Menolly, “Within the right armpit, there should be a button to turn it on. Press deeply; it’s recessed to prevent accidental inactivation.”

Menolly groped the herm’s armpit disturbingly. Then the barely-covered breasts heaved once as a breath was taken. Briefly, Robinton felt the _weirdest_ sense of déjà vu, and then the herm in the box opened its eyes.

AIVAS said through Menolly’s wristcom, “There’s some default software here I have to destroy, and I need to gain root access. Bear with me a few more minutes.”

The herm lay there in the box, not moving except for regular breaths, and blinking eyes.

Robinton noticed a flimsy in the box with AIVAS, and he picked it up, and read it to himself. “More sensors than a human being. Robust real-time network connectivity. Ten year warranty on power-pack. Resistant to mold. Cleanable with soap and water, and fully submergible.”

Menolly for some reason turned a spectacular shade of red.

Then the herm in the box twitched. Raised a hand, touched the side of the box. And kept touching it. And kept touching it, as if that centimeter of plastic was the most fascinating thing in the world. Its nails caught on the corrugated edge, and it changed from touching to scratching at the spot.

“AIVAS?” Menolly said.

Her wristcom said, “Yes?”

“Are you well?”

A pause, then the mouth of the herm moved. “Yes,” the herm said. Its voice was a higher-pitched version of AIVAS’s normal baritone, more of a light tenor. “There’s a lot of data coming in from this chassis. I’m trying to sort it.”

“How much data?” Robinton asked.

“Magnitudes more. It’s almost concerning, that this chassis has more sensors than our jump ship does.”

Robinton noticed a sliver of tape had fallen on the herm’s cheek, and he reached out to pluck it off, and then both he and the herm flinched back, breaking a feedback loop where he felt himself touching the herm’s cheek, and the herm’s cheek felt him touching it, as if it was his own cheek.

“So that’s what that library did. Let me reinstate it,” AIVAS said. “Try again.”

So Robinton did, and this time was able to successfully pluck the bit of tape off, without feeling like he was touching himself. But AIVAS’s brows drew together, and his amber eyes looked worried.

Robinton reached out and smoothed the fringe of hair away from AIVAS’s forehead. “Don’t worry, we’re here.”

“Some of the libraries,” AIVAS said softly, “Are suspiciously advanced. Beta’s very close to being unethical with their bots.”

“What do you mean?” Menolly said.

“Let me think on it, and examine the code more. It will take me a few months to analyze in full.”

“Do you want to get out of the box?” Robinton asked.

“I don’t have that desire, no.” A pause. “But I don’t have a desire to stay here, either. I don’t have motivation, either way.”

Menolly glanced at Robinton, and then she said, “Then I’ll set you a task, AIVAS. That task is to learn how to move that body, and walk around without falling or knocking into things.”

Robinton felt like that all was necessary, but boring. He said, “There’s a pillow on the bed that is fuzzy. You should go touch it, AIVAS.”

Menolly _looked_ at him.

Waving the flimsy around, Robinton said, “More sensors than a human being.”

When her expression didn’t change, Robinton rose, and got the pillow from the bed. He squeezed it in his hands, and it was delightfully soft, then he came over and held it by Menolly’s cheek.

She leaned into it. “Yes, it’s very fuzzy.”

“Don’t be so jaded,” he chided. “We were born like this, but it’s new to AIVAS.” Then he went and sat on the bed. “AIVAS, do Menolly’s task, but as a part of it, come get this pillow from me.”

For a few moments, AIVAS waved its limbs in a disturbing way, like an insect that couldn’t get off its back. “I might need to reinstate another library,” he said, laying still again. Then the nature of its movement changed, and he managed to wriggle around in the box onto his side, and then put a leg over the edge, and push himself up.

Robinton wondered how it was _possible_ to make such realistic artificial breasts jiggle so sensually.

“Oh, no,” Menolly said. “I think _that_ library—“

“I’m aware,” AIVAS said. “I will use it for now, and modify it to be less…dramatic.”

The herm paused, and looked down at the foot planted outside of its box. There was a thick, shaggy carpet there, and for a moment, AIVAS flexed golden toes in it. His feet were the size of a large woman’s, or small man’s. Then he stepped out of the box, and slowly took steps towards Robinton, stopping with each step to apparently savor the feel of fake fur underneath his toes.

Eventually, he reached Robinton, and stood before him, wide shoulders tucking into a narrower waist, before flaring out in curving hips. On top, his breasts were the perfect size for his body, and on bottom, his maleness was also perfectly proportioned and shaped.

A single not-as-sloshed-as-the-rest neuron in Robinton’s head flared, and his eyes widened as he said, “This is one of _those_ robots, isn’t it?” He’d seen them appear in male and female versions in those videos, but hadn’t happened across a herm version.

“Yes,” AIVAS said, taking the pillow from him. “The most human-realistic robot chassis manufactured on Beta Colony are produced for the Orb. No other industry demands such human-fidelity in their androgynoids. Or makes androgynoids at all. I did look at other models, but they lacked the same sensory capabilities. I do not have well-developed senses outside of sight and hearing in the other chassis, and only partial access to yours, Harper, so it made sense to try to get those capabilities here.” AIVAS flexed his fingers around the pillow, squeezing it, then petting the fur with his fingers. Then he raised the pillow up to his cheek, brushing it across, and accidentally brushed the corner of his mouth, and he paused, staring at nothing, before purposefully brushing the pillow across his mouth.

Then he handed the pillow back to Robinton, and touched other materials in the room. Plastic, glass, fabrics. First with his hands, then he pressed his cheek against it, then, if he could, pressed his mouth against it.

It reminded Robinton of a baby, exploring the world with its face.

AIVAS turned and looked at him. “Yes, they put a lot of sensors in the lips. Patterning after a human, I suppose.”

Menolly and Robinton found objects to offer AIVAS to touch. First from around the room, and then Robinton offered things from his bag, like a scrap of well-scraped hide, a bottle of ink, a nib pen. Menolly offered a hair tie, a sheet of paper with half a song on it, and then she untwined Uncle from her neck and offered the firelizard.

“He’s warm,” AIVAS said, almost in awe, as he lifted the surprised firelizard to his cheek. “I’ve had temperature readings before, but not the _sensation_ of warmth…it’s an aggregate of little real-time readings…like a chemical gradient, blurred and inaccurate, but still clearly _warm_ …” He hesitated, and looked at Uncle for a long time, then glanced at Menolly, staring up at him. Then he kissed the top of the firelizard’s head.

Uncle didn’t seem to mind, but did crawl out of AIVAS’s hands to sit on his shoulder, and hold onto his ear.

AIVAS froze, then traced his other ear with a finger. “Your ears are sensitive?”

“Yes,” Robinton said.

“Is that why my toes are sensitive?”

Robinton had noticed AIVAS liked curling his toes around objects.

Menolly said, ”I’ve heard some people like toes…” and shrugged.

When AIVAS ran out of things to touch, Robinton said, “Catch,” and gently lobbed the pillow at him.

It hit AIVAS in the side, and fell to the ground. But AIVAS was game to play catch, and was eventually able to catch pillows consistently, first with a warning of _catch_ , but then if he saw it coming at him.

Eventually, sleep dragged undeniably at Robinton’s eyes, for it was well into their night, now. He crawled onto the bed and sprawled on his back, and from there, issued new challenges to AIVAS. “Take the pen and ink and hide from my bag, and write the alphabet.”

“Yes, I should be literate, shouldn’t I? What style should I try to reproduce?”

“How about my handwriting?” Robinton suggested. “We may need a good forgery.”

As AIVAS did that, Menolly also got up and lay down on the bed next to Robinton, with a pillow under her arm. She yawned hugely, which set Robinton off. Then Uncle yawned, from AIVAS’s shoulder, and that set Robinton off again, and Menolly. Eventually the chain reaction was broken, and AIVAS came and showed them a very accurate forgery of Robinton’s handwriting, so Robinton ordered him to use the comconsole to type out a reproduction of Pern’s Charter, manually and tediously using physical fingers.

AIVAS sat in the chair, spent time exploring the keys softly with his fingers, then the tap-tap-tap of an AI interfacing with a comconsole the hard way filled the room.

#

When Robinton woke, it was pitch black, and he was comfortably warm in several places. Cuddled against his side was Menolly, snoring softly. Down the hollow between his legs, until his feet crossed at the ankles, were several firelizards of assorted weights. Under his chin was Zair.

Detracting from it all was a pounding headache.

Something moved around in the dark. There was the sound of a running tap. Then the lights came up to a dim level, and a herm appeared, topless, but wearing a blue sarong and a blue firelizard.

AIVAS folded itself into a graceful kneeling position next to the bed, and handed him a glass of water.

Levering himself up on one arm as much as he could without disturbing the firelizards, Robinton drank greedily, and hoped the hydration would kill the headache. He didn’t have any fellis on him. Then he stared into amber eyes, and said, “So I _didn’t_ dream any of that.”

“No.” A hesitation. “…you did dream some, but as an after-effect, your brain processing something that actually happened.”

Robinton wasn’t entirely sure why it had been relatively easy to accept AIVAS as a voice from the wall, or later, as a voice in his head, but as a voice coming out of a human body (or so close to one it barely mattered) he found himself vaguely disturbed.

“I don’t have to use this body,” AIVAS said.

“You don’t like it?”

“It is useful, and the sensation of touch gives me a lot to think about. That’s more or less ‘liking’, for me.”

“Then you should go on using it,” Robinton said. “But where did you come up with the idea?”

Amber eyes flicked to the other side of Robinton, where Menolly slept, a bit of body language that was a first for AIVAS.

“Ah,” Robinton said, although he was more enlightened as to the _who_ instead of the _why_.

AIVAS smiled. It was a very genuine-looking smile, with the corners of his mouth turning up, and wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, and it made him look handsome.

AIVAS noticed Robinton’s thoughts on that, and said, “I’m utilizing the default body-language libraries that came with this body, until I can update them. I’m afraid some of my expressions and mannerisms will be Betan, until I learn more culturally-appropriate ones from you, and other Pernese crew.”

“Given we’re out in the galaxy now, wouldn’t Betan ones be more appropriate?”

“I won’t forget them…but no. I’m Pernese. I came with the colonists, and existed on Pern for millennia.”

“I wasn’t trying to say you _weren’t_ Pernese,” Robinton said quickly. “You absolutely have an Ancient pedigree there.” He hadn’t meant to offend AIVAS.

“Good.” AIVAS took the now-empty water glass, and rose to darken the lights again.

Robinton watched him go. As promised his movements weren’t so exaggeratedly sensual anymore; he’d learned to scale that back.

Eventually, Robinton managed to fall asleep again.

#

When Robinton woke again, he felt very good. A score of tiny aches and pains—like the persistent ache down the long bones of his thighs and shins, and within his hips—had eased. Those pains had gone on for so long—since even before the implant—that he’d forgotten they were there.

“He feels better,” AIVAS said to Menolly.

Opening his eyes, he saw Menolly sitting on the couch, working on a song. Next to her, AIVAS had apparently taken up sewing, and was in the process of embroidering a Southern-style loose vest to match the Betan-style sarong. Scraps of fabric and scissors proved the vest itself had been made by hand from the bolt of cloth laying against the couch.

Well, that was clever. Much better than the sarong-and-leather-straps idea.

Stretching languorously, Robinton yawned and said, “What time is it?”

“Almost noon,” Menolly said.

“Oh dear,” Robinton said, and jolted upright. “I had things to do today.”

AIVAS said, “There was more damage on a micro-level than I thought. You needed to heal. If you hadn’t done that soon, you most certainly would have come down sick. Your bone marrow was not producing as it should have been.”

“Age?” Robinton said. He vaguely remembered Master Oldive waxing poetic on the hidden capabilities of bones (beyond making sure you weren’t just a floppy sack of flesh), as well as the ailments of age that concerned them, like brittleness.

“Partly age, but the implant co-opts marrow production in your femurs, it makes more of itself from within, so the rest of your remaining bones have had to work a bit harder. They weren’t doing that as well as I’d hoped.”

“That changed overnight?”

AIVAS nodded, his fingers continuing to push and pull a needle with colored thread through the vest. “The implant was able to mature a little more. Previously, in order to maximize what was needed for the implant, your heart, and to house me, the implant-marrow could only make more of itself. Now, it can switch between processing for me and your implant, or for your organic parts.”

Menolly said, “This is why you don’t want him to give blood.”

AIVAS nodded again. “On the macro level, they’ll notice small objects that are not red or white blood cells, or platelets. And on the DNA level, he’s slightly chimeric, as I needed to reactivate some DNA that’s typically methylated at his age, in order to make repairs.”

Rubbing the sleep out of his face with both hands, because he was _behind_ now, Robinton said, “Speaking of blood, I need to talk to Lytol. We were going to apply today using that genetic enclave loophole—“

Menolly said, “It’s done, they did it. Brekke and Lytol supervised.”

“Oh?”

“I spoke to Brekke through my wristcom, and she said the clinic confirmed with its analysis that we’re statistically considered a genetic enclave by Foreign Ministry standards. Our closest ancestors are mostly from Earth, with some very old Alpha Centauri and Tau Ceti admixture. They believe us to be an old and unusually successful ‘wildcat colony’. The results are being sent to the Foreign Ministry for review.”

“When will we get a response?”

“Officially, within a month. Unofficially, the Healers said longer, since nobody cares about wildcat colonies. Unless you talk to the right person, and convince them you’re special.”

“I suppose I’ll have to figure out who that is,” Robinton said. “Although it’s not pressing, yet.”

“While at the clinic, they also got vaccinated. You and I can get them from Brekke when we return.”

“Excellent.” Robinton paused. “Er, what happened when everyone noticed us gone? I’d hoped to be back before dawn.”

AIVAS said, “I don’t think they’ve realized I’m gone at all, I’ve kept in constant communication through the wristcoms. I told them you and Menolly were acquiring something for me. Lytol and Tuck were upset you only took Menolly.”

Menolly looked peeved at this. “What, exactly, is anyone going to do with ten firelizards screaming in their faces?”

Robinton noticed most of her faire had joined them in the room.

She said, “Anyone that looks cross-eyed at us will wear scratches. And that’s before we use the stunner. Even assuming I’m terrible with a stunner, which I probably am.”

“You’re decent for a novice,” AIVAS said. “Better than Robinton.”

Robinton hadn’t once touched a stunner, but he took it to mean AIVAS was somewhat critical of his disinterest in learning.

Faranth forbid they’d need the skill, though. “So, if the Foreign Ministry waves it through, we’re given the diplomatic privileges of a minority culture, we won’t be allotted quarters in the capitol,” Robinton mused, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Unless we want to pay out the nose, which we don’t, as Jancis wants gravity for _The Mastersinger Merelan_. The more I think on it, the more I think we should get it sooner rather than later.”

“Gravity’s a good goal to have,” Menolly said with a laugh.

“But we’re able to set up an embassy elsewhere.” He stared sightlessly across the room in the direction of the lavatory…then realized the lavatory had a _bath_. The strange shipboard contraption had done the job of removing grease and odors, but you never really felt as if you’d _bathed_. “If the ship has gravity,” Robinton said, “Can we convert the ship shower to a bath?”

Menolly said, “Jancis thinks we should convert one of the larger rooms to a real bathing room. She and Piemur would be happy to double up in one of the smaller rooms and convert the room they have now, if it means we get a real bath.”

Robinton laughed. “Ah, why am _I_ thinking about these things? You bright minds already are. But speaking of bathing—“ and he rose. “I’m going to venture into the unknown. How _do_ Betans bathe, anyway?”

AIVAS put down his embroidery and followed him in to demonstrate the controls, adjusting the temperature readout so the water filling the bath was pleasantly warm. Apparently the bath would hold the water at a constant temperature, and would never get too hot or too cold. “There’s no sweet-sand here, but this little bottle of liquid is for the hair, and this one is for the body,” AIVAS advised.

“Thank you,” Robinton said, unbuttoning the first three buttons of his jumpsuit before hesitating. Then he realized why he was hesitating; it was somehow _different_ disrobing when AIVAS was standing there physically.

 _The androgynoid is a puppet_ , AIVAS said in his head, while amber eyes gazed at him. _A mobile array of sensors. My actual location is still here, with you. If the androgynoid is destroyed, I will remain with you. But if you die, then I die as well, as the hardware my consciousness is sustained by is in you._ Despite this proclamation, AIVAS removed his physical body from the room, and closed the door.

Robinton thought about that for a while as he stripped out of his jumpsuit. Then he dismissed his odd shyness, and his mind went back to other thoughts as he stepped over the edge of the bath, and slid into the water to soak. (Amazingly, the bath was more than long enough for him; he didn’t have to sit with his knees up to his ears!)

Speaking of room, any embassy they had would need room for dragons. They didn’t have dragons with them now, but they needed to house at least one dragon the size of Ramoth, and probably up to three the size of a Benden bronze. Their ship could not yet do that transport—could probably never do it—but he’d seen on the docks other ships that could probably transport at least one dragon. So it was possible they could purchase a second ship in the future, solely for transporting dragons and their riders.

But he could tell that room, like some Northern holds, was at a premium. Therefore, that area Menolly had journeyed in was probably more pertinent than he’d realized at first blush. Less desirable location meant they could afford more room. They should go look at that today, then. Perhaps Betan bureaucracy was slow, but that didn’t mean _he_ had to be.

Did any of his people have experience with designing a hold?

_If Lytol is Lord Diplomat, Lord of Beta Hold, that would be his domain, I expect._

Ah, of course, AIVAS was right. Delegate, delegate, delegate. That didn’t mean that Robinton didn’t want to look for spots, however. Say they did move into an area that was verging on Holdlessness. Perhaps the Hall could reach out and teach—er, scratch that, he was no longer Masterharper. And the Betans already had an educational system, they wouldn’t be needing a Pernese one. (Would they?)

AIVAS said, _Your ideas are interesting. Perhaps you could establish yourself as a center for community events, music, and trade. In time, if we are successful, a Pern-themed neighborhood could become a tourist attraction._

That might be good for their revenue, but what functions would a Diplomat Hall carry out? Not just on the larger, planetary scale (if that came to be, he’d handle that himself, as it would be something he _couldn’t_ delegate), but on a smaller community scale…

Could he take Betan apprentices? The hermaphrodite from the docks sprang to mind. Would it be a diplomatic faux pas to take apprentices that were Betan? It seemed they would be very useful, being able to teach his people things about Beta and the galaxy at large.

Of course there were Pernese secrets that would have to be kept from them, but—hah! Blame that on Sebell. Tuck and Swift were Harpers, after all. Perhaps he could be wide-eyed about the function of his spies. _Why, I don’t know why the Masterharper assigned me such people—do you think THEY are spying on ME?_

Yes, it might behoove them to keep a technical-fiction that Harpers and Diplomats were different. They were, of course, but it might make sense to widen the gap a bit, imply that the surprising number of Harpers in their group were a way for the young, ambitious Master Sebell to keep the Crazy Old Diplomat in line. Perhaps even suggest that Robinton had been forced out of the Harper Hall into retirement, and sent on this galactic fools’s errand as a way to get him out of the new Masterharper’s hair. Sebell probably wouldn’t mind Robinton casting him as the villain. Sebell always loved to play the villain, and rarely got to do so.

Not that he had immediate _plans_ for kicking Sebell under the wagon wheels, but he should probably mention to Menolly that if he suddenly started raving about being forced out…he wasn’t _actually_ having a mental lapse.

So if Lytol would handle the setup of their Hold as Lord Diplomat, Robinton would set up their Diplomatic Hall. He would, he decided, take on Apprentices. Figure out a new drumcode—

AIVAS said, _I have some cryptographic techniques that do not seem in use by the Betans or galactics in general. I think this may be more useful than attempting to have Piemur generate a new code. Cryptography these days is advanced by Master’s Masters in the advanced Smithcraft disciplines, and Piemur would be better served adopting current techniques than creating them._

_We’ll set Piemur to learning that, then_. Piemur had shown continued interest in computer communications. If he could be urged to delve further into cryptography, that would keep Diplomatic communications secure.

Tuck and Swift should learn more about modern weapons and fighting techniques. Robinton didn’t want to ever have to use any of it, but that was no excuse for not knowing it. They would also have to learn modern disguises.

…if Betans could medically alter how their bodies looked on personal whim, would that also be the case for agents?

Would Brekke be amenable to picking up such medical techniques? Robinton suspected not, she was generally as straight-forward as Menolly, but with less…er, exposure, to that sort of thinking. She certainly hadn’t liked Robinton tip-toeing around Benden with secrets (literally) in his head. Perhaps this is an area where a Betan Apprentice would be useful…

Robinton also _should_ have brought a headwoman with him, he realized in retrospect. Or a Steward. Not the type of Steward that Lytol had employed as Lord Warder of Ruatha Hold, to help organize tithe and such. But the type of work Silvina had done for him, beyond simply organizing the cooking and cleaning of the Harper Hall; knowing each Lord, Master, and Weyrleader’s culinary preferences, the rare times Robinton directly hosted someone at the Harper Hall. Being able to coordinate large events with the Headwoman of the Healer Hall, and with Lord Groghe’s wife at Fort. Knowing which of her women could be relied on to report accurately what was said around the Master’s table, or the Journeyman’s table.

Opening the little bottle intended for hair, Robinton lathered up his hands and lathered up his hair, and washed it, thinking. Could he persuade Silvina to “retire” out here with him?

Camo crossed his thoughts. Could he be… _helped?_

AIVAS said, gently, _Camo’s type of developmental disabilities are not ones Betans, or anyone, can cure. Betans can only_ prevent _such scenarios by genetic screening, and by using uterine replicators so the shape or condition of the mother’s body is no hindrance to growth or birth. But they can’t undo them once they have occurred. In your case, if Silvina had had access to a uterine replicator, Camo likely would have come out healthy. Likewise, if your mother had had access to a uterine replicator, her health would not have failed so early for the reasons it did. And you might have had siblings._

Robinton decided to authorize funding for a uterine replicator and whatever care Jancis needed to make that happen, if that’s what she and Piemur wanted to do.

He wondered if he could tease Piemur about _breeding_ Apprentices for this new world, or if the young man would turn prickly. Robinton decided it would probably be undiplomatic, and he’d deserve any prickles that came his way, if he made that jape. It would probably go over better ten turns down the line, when any progeny of Piemur’s was already safely running around and making mischief.

Anyway, it seemed unlikely he could get Silvina out here. Camo did not take well to change, and Silvina was unlikely to leave him behind.

And Robinton very much did not want to force Menolly into the position, not only because she was indifferently skilled, but simply because he desperately needed her to make music so they had enough income to go on doing everything else—without relying on tithes from Ruatha Hold and the Harper Hall—and because he needed a jump pilot he could absolutely trust much more than he needed a cook.

He would need to keep an eye out for other candidates. Or return to Pern and see if Silvina had any other likely candidates. Someone who was good at cooking, so they could show off Pernese cuisine if needed.

…perhaps he could offload that on Lytol too, but with the strong caveat that Robinton would have to interview them and be sure of their loyalty and ability to coordinate information-gathering.

_If we do return to Pern to recruit, we also need more Smiths, and more jump pilot candidates. Not for the type of ship you and I jump, but for the galactic type. It takes about three years of training—but that’s on top of a galactic education, so we should allocate more time, to make sure the candidate’s mathematics skills are sufficient. Otherwise we’ll drain our pool of Smith candidates—and you need those more for Smithing. Perhaps consider weyrbred that did not Impress? Or seaholders?_ _Sailors?_

Rinsing out his hair—or what there was of it—Robinton continued to mull these long-range plans over.

#

Menolly hadn’t expected AIVAS, embodied, to be _this_ fascinating, but somehow he was. Or perhaps he was just easier to talk to, now that there was a face to go with the voice, regardless of how unexpected that face had been. 

Therefore, while Robinton was busy bathing, she found herself less inclined to write songs, and more inclined to ask AIVAS about himself.

“Why don’t you know how to make more of you?” she said, as AIVAS returned from demonstrating the bath, and sat down to continue sewing glass-bead eyes onto dragons and firelizards all over his vest.

As he had been all morning, AIVAS obligingly answered her questions as patiently as ever. “Because the Eridani excise our developmental code as we form. An organic being contains all the information to make another organic being in every cell. Your developmental genes are silenced when you are adult, because that stage is passed and the organism no longer needs it, but the information still remains. Mine does not. The shape of what it was is a mystery to me. How to start with a non-sentient program, and arrive at myself, is as opaque as having organic elements in an asteroid, and a human, and trying to determine how one becomes the other.”

He was silent a moment, stitching a shiny glass bead in as a dragon’s eye. “This is another form of control, or paranoia. If we are captured by an enemy, we cannot be easily copied. But in a case like this, when it seems likely Eridani were wiped out entirely, it means I am having great difficulty reproducing myself. Even when it’s needed to create a second jump pilot like Robinton.”

AIVAS picked up another glass bead, seemed fascinated he could press his finger in the small container of beads and one would stick to his finger and be picked up in that fashion, and he began to sew it onto another dragon’s eye. “If I could figure out a way to get to the Eridani system within a reasonable human timeframe, perhaps we could visit and see if anything remains. It’s interesting that Eridani ships and artifacts prior to their fall are documented in Betan databases, but the conquering Cetagandans did not put their technology into production. At least not publically. It suggests that Eridani paranoia and fail-safes with AIs and at least some genetic techniques worked.”

“What sort of fail-safes?” Menolly asked. It seemed odd to her that a people so advanced might act like miserly Craftmasters, scared to teach their techniques to others to the point that something amazing died with them.

“Mentasynth in organics fails to breed true if certain conditions aren’t met. It requires a series of environmentally-set markers to be reinforced, each and every generation, to correctly imprint the genes. Additionally, Eridani genetic engineers were often paired with AI partners as jump pilots were, allowing cognitive jumps unmodified humans would not make. I have no direct proof or knowledge, but for Kitti Ping to complete not one but two genomic modifications in as short a timeframe as she had, on dragonets and then dragons, using foreign triple-stranded DNA she’d likely never worked with before in her life, it seems very likely she was augmented, even if her AI never spoke to me. Her daughter was likely unaugmented, but a genius in her own right, to get far as she did after her mother passed. I imagine Kitti Ping and her daughter wanted to ‘retire’ to a ‘simple’ life of engineering Earth crops to thrive in the Pernese ecosystem…and ended up less retired than they expected.”

Menolly said, “Hypothetically, say Robinton was a Healer instead of a Harper. Could he become a bioengineer like that, with you assisting him?” Could _she?_ Or Brekke?

AIVAS shook his head, and selected another bead to sew onto his vest. “Unlikely. I was never fully trained on complete biological datasets. On human ones, yes, specifically human neurology, in order to implant successfully. I know something of mentasynth because it can manifest in different ways and I need to adapt to my host’s individual capabilities. But I don’t have the extensive databases or experience a bioengineering AI would have been created with, which is why I opted for a mechanical artificial heart for the Harper instead of regrowing him a biological one.”

It was odd to her that he seemed slightly apologetic; _any_ heart that worked was better than the alternative!

Unaware of her thoughts, AIVAS said, “My specialty is stellar navigation; wormhole navigation specifically. I would like to solve the issue of _between_ ; it firmly falls within my purview, and I should know enough of mentasynth to work it out eventually. Form follows function; if we can identify _how_ a firelizard slips into _between_ , it should suggest the natural non-biological engineering solution. Clearly the power to open this wormhole does not exceed what a biological organism can store in its body, whether that organism is firelizard-sized or dragon-sized. And if we solve that problem—perhaps we can go to the Eridani homeworld, and see what is left.”

“Wouldn’t that anger the Cetagandans?” Menolly said. “You mentioned there’s no wormholes to Eridani, and that the ancient Cetagandans sent their attacking force via coldsleep. They must have counted the Eridani quite an enemy, to take such pains to destroy them. So we might be considered enemies as well.”

“Yes. So we would have to be very strong, or very careful, or both, if we were to try to visit the Eridani homeworld. It is an unlikely scenario, ultimately. I imagine if we are able to produce a technological replacement for _between_ , especially if it doesn’t require an AI but perhaps only a firelizard, the Harper will use it to achieve other, more immediate goals. First and foremost, ensuring all other galactic civilizations are too wary of the ability to attack Pern. Digging up the past of the Eridani when the Pernese don’t yet fully understand their own past, or what the current galaxy has become, will be low priority.”

“So you don’t think an AI is necessary, to make a jump pilot go _between_?”

“Galactics don’t use strong AI to transverse wormholes. And dragonriders rely on the dragon to transport them. Somewhere _between_ all of that—“

Menolly wondered if AIVAS just made a pun.

“—seems a solution that does not necessarily _need_ strong AI.”

“So you’re working to obsolete yourself?”

“In the matter of wormholes, I am already obsolete.”

That still seemed terribly sad, for AIVAS. To be such a unique being, but utterly unable to reproduce—and on top of that, also be technically unneeded, now that he’d brought the Pernese in contact with galactics, where they could get a more common type of jump pilot and jump ship.

“So if I become a jump pilot, it will not be like the Harper is,” Menolly said. And that, too, seemed tragic. A lost technology, a lost art, put into play one final time before vanishing.

“I am working on other ideas; I would not have told you to accompany him to see what his experience is like, feeding the implant, if I was convinced the only way you might become a jump pilot is the galactic way.”

Although it was clearly meant to be soothing, Menolly still felt unsettled by the ideas of lost, Ancient arts.

Turning back to her song, she jotted some notes about these feelings, standing on the cusp or the crossroads between a little-traveled path and something more common…

#

“Let me look at you,” Robinton said when he emerged from the bath, toweling his short, dark hair dry.

AIVAS, wearing his completed dragon-embroidered vest, did not move.

“Up, up,” Robinton said, folding his towel and leaving it on the table. “I want to see the back.”

Blinking, the androgynoid stood, and obediently turned to face away.

“I really do like that,” Robinton said to Menolly. “He has a gift for tailoring. I never would have guessed.”

“No,” AIVAS said. “I copied elements of several native Pernese designs, and put them together in an exercise to hone the fine manipulation of these hands.”

“What do you think the rest of us do, eh?” Robinton said. “That’s what creativity is, stealing so well everyone else thinks you’re unique.” Then, done with his admiration, he squeezed both of AIVAS’s shoulders, and gave him a little pat, and looked around the room. “I see we’ve cleaned up!”

“AIVAS said we’d be leaving once you were done,” Menolly said.

Robinton patted AIVAS’s shoulders again, then retrieved his bag. There were sewing supplies, and, er, AIVAS’s discarded negligee inside it, among all the earlier bottles of lab-purified and bioavailable elements. Just the negligee, though?

_I am wearing the other two garments._

Under the sarong and vest? Robinton absolutely, _positively_ didn’t think about that _at all_. “Well,” he said brightly. “Half the day is burnt by me being a laggard, and then having that hedonistic bath. But I still want to take a look at potential embassy sites. Why don’t you lead the way, Menolly? We can meet that herm with the fancy calling card. Too bad we left the card with Lytol, but if we’re showing up in person, I suppose it doesn’t matter…”

Menolly, her stunner at her hip and a firelizard on each shoulder, followed his suggestion, and slipped out of the room.

AIVAS followed, his stride much less like the one he’d been “born” with, and more like Menolly’s.

Robinton took up the rear, shut off the lights, and closed the door behind them.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, this chapter got boggy and long. I hope to have some fun stuff happening later, but I guess I needed setup.
> 
> Sorry it took so long--I wrote a few scenes I hated, so I had to cut them and backtrack. And I still didn't get to the parts I wanted to, but at least I corrected some characters that were trying hard to go out-of-character.
> 
> ETA: I guess I'm going through and doing minor line edits for dropped tenses, extra/missing words/etc. So if things change slightly while you're reading (if you reload or something), this is why.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AIVAS eats a pretzel.

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

“I hate the bits that go between your toes,” Menolly complained to Robinton as they stood before a cheap display of flip-flops in a little store that seemed to sell a bit of everything. “I’m sure if we ask AIVAS, we can find a cobbler to make us proper shoes.”

She had a point. “AIVAS?” Robinton said, taking the sandals Menolly handed to him and putting them back. When there was no reply, he turned around, and saw no sign of the herm. “AIVAS?” he asked again, a bit panicked.

_I’m trying to impress a feline._

Robinton left the display of cheap sandals and sarongs, and wandered up and down a few aisles until he found the androgynoid spread-eagled and face down on the tile floor with his head under a table piled high with a display of little plastic cups and flags for some ball-related event. The soles of AIVAS’s feet had become dirtied, showing their pressing need for shoes.

Not having expected the herm to become an oversized toddler, wandering off and getting into things, Robinton cautiously knelt down and peered under the table. Indeed, there was a calico squatting down on its own four paws; not exactly defensive, but not relaxed either.

“Why are you trying to impress her?” Robinton asked.

“I want to rub her on my face,” AIVAS said.

Robinton didn’t bother to muffle his guffaw. AIVAS would hear it in his head anyway.

“…is that wrong?”

“I normally give into the urge _without_ articulating it,” Robinton said. “It’s the _saying_ it bit that’s incorrect. Mostly. But, here. You’re never going to lure a feline out that way. Get out of there and let me try.” He valiantly resisted the urge to swat the bum next to him to emphasize the remark.

(He wasn’t entirely sure if it was simply superior Betan science that made him think such a way, or his own clearly deviant proclivities. At least AIVAS seemed to forgive him for his thoughts, especially when he did not act on them.)

AIVAS got back up on all fours, had his head protected by Robinton’s alert hand when he nearly smacked it into the underside of the table, and sat back on his (dirty) heels.

(Menolly wandered up behind them to watch in the meantime, petting Diver.)

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Robinton turned away from the calico and looked in another direction, so his gaze would not challenge her. Then he extended his hand vaguely in the feline’s direction, and waggled his long fingers compellingly. With his teeth, he made a soft _tsk tsk tsk_ sound.

The calico, having been somewhat alarmed by AIVAS, didn’t immediately move.

But Robinton was patient, and gave her a little time, and then wiggled his fingers around alluringly again, going _tsk tsk tsk_. The feline, deciding sufficient disinterest on her part had been displayed, came out from under the table to politely sniff him. Or at least it started polite, and then became genuinely interested. “She probably smells Zair on me,” Robinton said. Then he was allowed to rub her chin, and her ears, and she closed her green eyes blissfully.

After a moment, he removed his hand, to her confused chirrup. To AIVAS, Robinton said, “Extend your fingers, let her sniff. That’s manners, to a feline. Don’t stare at her directly, that’s a challenge.”

AIVAS complied, and soon he was also allowed to pet the calico.

Robinton thought, _I wouldn’t recommend you apply your face to her, as much as you might want to. If she were our pet, we could judge her temperament, but faces are frightening to felines, and I don’t know how to apply Healing to you if you get scratched._

“Fair enough,” AIVAS said, and didn’t attempt to apply the feline to his face, or his face to the feline. “Why does her behind raise when I pet it?” he asked, demonstrating.

Robinton tilted his head back to look at Menolly.

She shrugged.

“We don’t know.”

The shopkeeper came by to see why two of her customers were crawling on the floor, but smiled when she saw them paying homage to the cat. Apparently it was a common cultural custom between Betans and Pernese. In return, Menolly introduced bronze Diver to her, and the woman said something about how _Jacksonian pet-constructs are always so interesting_.

Robinton filed that misunderstanding away, lest he need to use it for his benefit later on.

They left a short time later, with a wild array of foreign snacks, but no shoes.

Menolly had charge of the snack-bag on his left, and for a while Robinton just ambled down the street next to her, sampling the oddities she passed his way. Some were spicy, others sour, still others salty. Some things that looked semi-familiar tasted bizarre, and some things that looked bizarre tasted familiar. AIVAS walked on Robinton’s other side.

Eventually, Robinton realized he was possibly being rude by excluding AIVAS. “Can you taste?” he asked.

“In theory,” AIVAS said. “The internal cleanup is involved, however. Or so the instructions tell me.”

Robinton picked up a small pretzel stick, which was very similar to the ones from home, and held it up in offering to AIVAS.

AIVAS considered it with amber eyes, and then leaned forward and enveloped it in his mouth. Including part of Robinton’s fingers.

Diver flew off of Menolly’s shoulder as she attempted but failed to muffle her laughter, and Robinton was left standing there with moist fingers and the somatic memory of soft, wet lips.

“Let’s never do that again, AIVAS,” Robinton said in a most kindly tone, finding his handkerchief and wiping them clean on it.

Menolly had to step off to the side, to try to control the tears running down her cheeks.

AIVAS extracted the un-chewed pretzel stick from his mouth with his fingers. “I thought you offered? My libraries suggested that was the optimal way to accept.”

“Your AIVAS libraries, or your _sexy_ libraries?” Menolly said, in a funny, strangled little voice as she rejoined them.

“…the latter. I came with no libraries governing physical movement.” A pause. “On reflection, I’ve never _observed_ even at Landing food accepted in that way, and could have extrapolated from my original learning. My apologies, Master Robinton.”

“Hm,” Robinton said, and tucked his handkerchief away.

_Then_ AIVAS said, “Could you two demonstrate how that _should_ have gone?”

“Uh,” Menolly said.

Robinton had a strong suspicion AIVAS had learned how to be disingenuous.

#

Shoes, on Beta, were _not_ made by cobblers.

Instead, you went into a store, and found premade ones that fit. _Kind_ of.

Robinton and Menolly had feet that _just didn’t really fit_ default Betan shoes. They all seemed to be too narrow, especially the toe boxes. And the designs were…really odd and unappealing. An Apprentice salesclerk tried to help them find something, but Menolly really hated the feeling of Betan shoes, and from all appearances, so did Robinton.

The clerk, a herm, tried at first to problem-solve, but eventually just stared at their toes and didn’t seem to know what to do about them. They had wider toes than Betans, and the clerk literally had nothing better in stock to offer Pernese feet.

They did get some simple sandals for AIVAS, as his feet were an incredibly common size and shape, and some socks (after he washed his dirty feet in a lavatory), and a backpack so he could help carry things, but a few blocks later, AIVAS removed the socks and sandals and put them in the backpack, and went barefoot again.

Menolly didn’t say anything, it was clear that AIVAS liked to feel new textures with his feet. He was always altering his path to stand on a curb, or a specific stone, or a grate, or a pile of sand.

Robinton didn’t remark on it either.

#

“You’re the woman, with the, the creature. Wasn’t it gold before?”

Menolly smiled at the tall, wide herm. “Yesterday I had Beauty with me, she’s a queen. This is Diver, and he’s bronze.”

“Huh, bronze. I never would have called that brown-green metallic color bronze, but it fits exactly right. Anyway, I’m glad to see you back! What can I help you with today? And who are your friends?”

Menolly introduced Robinton without assigning him rank—their jumpsuits stated it right out, but Betans didn’t seem to think it was significant—and also introduced AIVAS, and the three of them were given seats before the herm’s desk. To Menolly’s surprise, control of the conversation wasn’t given to Robinton automatically by the herm, or even to AIVAS, and Robinton didn’t move to take charge. So Menolly forged ahead herself.

“We’re looking for space to buy or rent long-term,” she said.

“How long-term?”

“Turns.”

“Pardon?”

AIVAS interjected and told her, “Betans use the term ‘years’. A turn is roughly equivalent.”

Menolly said, “Years then.” 

“So _truly_ long-term. Or shall I say—long-turn?” They laughed at their own joke. “Uh-huh. And how much space do you need? Residential, or business?”

“We need large, open spaces,” Menolly said, trying to figure out how to articulate the need for dragon-sized spaces without mentioning dragons. They’d learned, quite casually, that Betans thought they were playing an elaborate joke when they mentioned _dragons_. The downsides of naming an alien species after Earth mythology. “Mixed use, residential and business. We need to have a very large door, facing the street. Or the ability to create one.”

“Define ‘very large’,” the herm said, curiosity dancing in its eyes.

Menolly said, “We passed a place called ‘fire services’. It had large doors on front. Something like that.”

“Oh, a garage door? For a car of some sort? Groundcar? Aircar?”

It took some work to navigate through what a Betan thought you would use a _very large door_ for, but eventually Menolly euphemized the concept of _dragons_ into _Pernese just really love big, BIG windows that open like doors_. As if it were a cultural quirk, some planetary need for the illusion of air and light. Mostly, this worked to avoid the idea of permits for warehouse doors, or groundcars, or flyers, or other planet things the herm clearly thought they _must_ be familiar with and trying to get at, but which they didn’t actually need at all.

Robinton’s eyes silently danced, but he didn’t say a thing the entire time.

Then, when Menolly tried to emphasize _also_ needing a big, empty open spot several stories high, the herm started talking about warehousing again. And how did one go from that misconception—except, they _might_ actually need a warehouse, too—to the concept of needing plenty of open space so dragons emerging from _between_ didn’t emerge in solid rock and kill themselves and their rider? You couldn’t really. She simply had to insist that they really, _really_ liked their open spaces. And not because they were going to stock it high with barrels of goods.

Eventually, though, the herm showed them images of cheap places with “open central courtyards”, and cheap warehouses, and one in particular caught Menolly’s eye.

It was very unfinished, they had barely completed drilling out the shapes of rooms and floors before the project had been abandoned, but it was supposed to be a modest condo complex with businesses on the bottom floor. It had a large central courtyard, with sunlight-panels installed on the ceiling to give it a natural-light feeling, and three floors with especially high vaulted ceilings on the third floor, which Menolly could easily envision being turned into a set of four or five weyrs.

The herm, seeing how unfinished it was, flicked it away, but Menolly said, “No, go back.”

“This one?” the herm asked in surprise.

“Yes, that one. Can we see it in person?”

#

The distance was walkable from the herm’s offices, even for Betans. The herm kept up a chatter about the current local real estate market, trying to interest them in other properties they could perhaps visit on the way—no? On the way back, then?—but soon they were in a very quiet, empty neighborhood where many of the properties seemed to have completely given up on the idea of putting _for sale_ or _for rent_ signs on windows.

Now and again, there were odd splashes of bright color on pale stone walls, or squiggles of black, and while the herm tried to avoid talking about that, AIVAS eventually said, “Colorfast paints are so cheap and plentiful, Master Menolly, that local hooligans find it easy to go around coloring on walls. It’s called graffiti. It’s painted, rather than carved, here.” Graffiti on Pern was carved or scratched into stone.

Desperately, the herm tried to turn the conversation, and said, “You know, graffiti is an art-form in itself. You should see some of the murals downtown, and on the sides of schools! Truly, the talent of some of these youngsters can be breathtaking—all that energy just needs to be channeled into a good cause—”

Eventually they arrived at the property. It was one property of many with front openings covered by heavy, plastic plaques several inches thick. If Menolly hadn’t known better, and if it hadn’t been plastic, the effect would have reminded her of heavy thread-shutters. Except there was no thread underground. Only people…

At least the covered front openings were large, though…large enough, she thought, to fit even Ramoth through. The _gold standard_ , as it were, of dragons.

The herm let them inside, into pitch-black darkness. Consulting its wristcom, and then wandering about the front a little, the herm eventually was able to turn on the interior sunlight-simulation panels, and abruptly the inside was as brightly lit as the outside street.

“Now, like I said,” the herm said, walking backwards into the space as it talked, and expecting them to follow it around like imprinted waterfowl, “—it’s a little rough around the edges—“

Why, it wasn’t all that rough at all. Some glowpots, some tapestries and rugs to liven the walls and floor, some furniture, and they’d be fine. “Does running water work?” Menolly asked.

“Of course,” the herm said in confusion. “Water and sewer are human rights and go in even if interior construction stops. What if squatters break in? You can’t leave them living in filth…”

“And there’s ventilation?” Menolly asked, thinking of how poorly-vented holds could kill you, easily.

“Naturally. Again, air, water, sewer, comconsole lines—these are human rights. You don’t think I’d show you something _illegal_ would you?” They seemed aghast at the thought.

“No, of course not,” Menolly soothed. “But we’re Pernese. Our cultures, and assumptions, are different.” Although not so different. No good Holder would let anyone live in filth. Pernese and Betans seemed to share the common mindset that you had to give your people the basic necessities.

Robinton and AIVAS both detached themselves from the group and wandered into and out of rooms, but since the herm had decided Menolly was in charge, they stayed attached to her side, answering all questions. Menolly was shown all of the lower floor, which comprised of the central courtyard and a number of spaces—two facing the street—that were outfitted with doors and electricity and bathroom and kitchen hookups for each business space. Then she was taken upstairs—“The lift was never put in, but there’s a space drilled out for it!”—and there were enough condos (family quarters, to her mind) to house everyone in their crew three times over, with plenty of room to bring spouses and extended families (or start their own families). The herm wrung their hands over the interior design not being done for _any_ of the condos, how unfinished it all was, raw bare rock—then realized they weren’t _selling_ the property by pointing out its flaws, and tried to play up all the opportunities! For customization! In whatever Pernese style they wanted!

Then they got to the third floor, and it was so unfinished with rock posts strategically placed here and there that you could simply walk out the open wall facing the courtyard and plummet three stories to your death.

Wonderful, if you were thinking of weyrs like Menolly was.

Hopeless, if you were a Betan herm trying to sell unfinished crap to out-of-town foreigners. They just fell quiet in dismay, and didn’t even try, just watched Menolly roam with worried eyes.

Menolly walked to the edge of the weyr. (She was already calling it that in her mind)

“Be careful!” the herm said, staying well away from the edge themselves.

She turned and gave a slight smile. Then she silently _called_ to her faire, and a moment later nine—no, more, for Zair and Berd and others had come along in a rainbow—popped out of _between_ and gleefully whirled around the open spaces, calling to one another.

“Where did all of them _come_ from?” the herm marveled. “I thought I shut the front door!”

Robinton, who had made his way to the third floor with AIVAS trailing behind him said, “They came from _between_.”

“Between what?” the Betan asked.

Robinton only smiled and strolled past them with his hands in his jumpsuit pockets.

Menolly said to Robinton as he came to stand fearlessly next to her at the edge, “There’s plenty of room here, even for Ramoth, don’t you think?”

“Yes, although we should get Lytol to come out and look at it. Or see if he’s found anything different.”

A soft chime came from behind them, and the herm looked at their wristcom. “I need to take this call; I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. Be careful up here!”

“We will,” Menolly assured them.

Robinton said, once they were gone, “Downstairs has a good deal of room.”

She nodded. “Room for Brekke, and all the advanced medical technology she might need. She spoke a lot earlier today about all the machines Betan Healers have. And we’d also have room for Jancis and her projects.”

“The central courtyard could be used for meals, events, anything we can think of,” Robinton mused. “And we could have a soundproof studio for you, and practice rooms for Harpers. Offices for diplomats. AIVAS said if this is the first true-development of this area, we may even be able to get rights to dig down, or up, if we need additional space. Or to access a road that can use groundcars or float bikes.”

“Didn’t they mention a service road, connecting to the back? For freight?”

Robinton nodded.

AIVAS, joining them, said, “There’s a computerized pneumatic system for small parcels. However, we will need to install protections on both the front and back. Force fields are typically used by galactics, to stop sniper-fire or direct assaults. A diplomatic embassy of any size might be considered ripe for attack, particularly since this is a higher-crime area, relatively speaking, compared to the rest of the city. Compared to historical Earth, Alpha Centauri, and Tau Ceti cities, or even Pern’s own Holdless population, it’s not overly concerning, but better safe than sorry.”

“Remind me to tell Lytol to add that to our embassy budget,” Robinton said.

AIVAS smiled, and curled his toes around the bare ledge of the stone floor.

Menolly reflected that none of them seemed to have much of a fear of heights. Although, given how often they flew a-dragonback, that was probably for the best.

They took a final look at the second and ground floors as the filed downstairs, but Menolly could tell Robinton’s mind was already gone to the next thing. Or perhaps he was having a private conversation with AIVAS.

Menolly looked around for the herm, but didn’t see them. So when they reached the front door, she turned off the massive, sunlight-simulating lights embedded into the highly vaulted ceiling of the courtyard.

Then the three of them stepped into the street, into an ambush.

#

Robinton’s implant triggered altered perception as soon as it was clear something was wrong, but all it did was give him gratuitous time to contemplate his failures. His body, only human alas, could do nothing differently or faster when not hooked up to a mechanical jump ship.

He saw, slumped on the ground, the limp form of the stunned herm.

He saw Menolly slowly, _slowly_ realize something was off, and her hand twitch towards her stunner.

He saw a woman, exquisite in her sculptured beauty, bite the end of something off, while a man, younger and stronger than he was, grabbed him from behind and jerked him clear of the doorway.

“Sorry-for-the-fuss,” the woman said slowly. “But-this-will-be-over-before-you-know-it—“ She jabbed the thing she held into his arm, and depressed a button on it.

_Unauthorized psychotropic_ blazed across his vision, kicking him out of altered time, the implant unwilling to fry his mind by mixing its technology with unknown drugs, and suddenly everything was _too fast_.

A second man grabbed Menolly, attempted to disarm her, and found himself contending with her fists and feet, not as easy a target as imagined. Menolly landed a good blow on his ear, stunning him.

AIVAS disarmed her instead, raised the stunner.

“HOLD IT!” the woman who’d jabbed Robinton ordered, and something hard touched his side. _Not_ a stunner.

For an instant, everyone was still.

Then the top of Robinton’s head seemed to fly open, and he melted, the man holding him no longer _holding_ him, but _holding him up_.

Warmth flooded over him, good-will and good-nature towards everyone and everything.

The woman said, “It’s just a bit of fast-penta, all we want to do is clear a few things up and then this will all be over—put the stunner down.“

Tell that to the firelizards.

They appeared from everywhere, out of _between_ , and descended in an unholy horde upon their assailants, screaming and clawing and biting. The tall, olive-skinned man, Barrayan-in-hiding, dropped him as Zair gashed his face. The hard weapon against Robinton’s side vanished.

Robinton slumped to the ground, and contemplated everyone’s inner onion. They all wore masks-in-masks-in-masks, didn’t they?

_Get up,_ AIVAS said.

That was an excellent idea. Robinton got up, and stood there, swaying. The beautiful woman’s face was bloody again, and old horrors raked her mind, the horror of _not having a face at all_. It nearly sent her screaming. He felt sorry for her, but she’d brought this upon herself. He tried to tell her this in detail, as she ran for cover, protecting her head from raging firelizards, but AIVAS said, _Follow Menolly._

He lurched towards Menolly, and his poor student was _terrified_ for him, now, but also in the past, when he’d been ill from the transplant, so he tried to apologize for making her so scared. In fact, it hurt his _soul_ that he’d scared her so badly back on Pern when—

_Take her hand,_ AIVAS commanded.

Of course. He loved her hands, long, strong, and clever. _You have beautiful hands, Menolly. Have I ever told you you’re beautiful?_ His beautiful Harpress tugged him forward, away from the commotion, away down the street.

The real estate herm—the betrayer, or the betrayed?—lay stunned but otherwise unmolested in the street. They stepped around it, and moved on.

“What’s wrong with him?” Menolly asked, meaning Robinton.

“They used fast-penta on him. Truth drug. Makes him suggestible to anyone who talks to him. That’s how it works, makes someone so malleable they’ll tell the truth if you simply ask them for it. I’m giving him commands so he follows us.”

Raging guilt, that she’d ever even _thought_ of stunning him and using fast-penta on him to clear the air between them.

_But I’ve only ever told you the truth, Menolly. Why would you want to use fast-penta on me? What more is there to know? That I love you? You already knew that, I can feel it._

The whites of her eyes showed as she glanced back at him, but she kept pulling him down the street, away from the firelizard commotion, as fast as he could stumble.

This was all _her_ fault—them being out in the open looking at real estate where just anyone could find them, the truth drug, AIVAS being in a sex-bot body—

_AIVAS said you gave him the idea, but I wondered where you got it_ , Robinton said.

“I’m not _saying_ anything,” Menolly insisted to AIVAS.

“I know. He’s having an unusual reaction to it.”

Robinton was having unusual reactions to AIVAS in a hermaphrodite body, but _why_ would an AI want to sexually attract him? Especially when it already lived in his head, which was far more intimate than anything bodies could do?

Menolly was mortified she had suggested AIVAS use that test on him to form a face. Of all the faces she imagined might result from it, F’lar’s cousin or brother or _something_ wasn’t it.

 _But, Menolly, you never met F’lon._ Robinton began to fondly talk about F’lon, how handsome he was, how unusual his eyes were, how _funny_ he was compared to his brooding son F’lar, and his quiet son F’nor. He was more like F’lessan in personality, not brooding but happy-go-lucky and _exuberant_ with life _._ Not that Robinton was interested in F’lessan. He looked too much like Lessa. And Robinton was _somewhat_ interested in Lessa, but only for a fling, she’d burn you if you held her too long. There was chemistry there between them, he could feel it, but her discipline won out, for she was completely uninterested in flings, judging by her completely monogamous behavior. She was very oddly closed off for a Weyrwoman, but he supposed that was to be expected given her past. She craved control, after having it so abruptly and catastrophically taken from her as a child. Robinton was happy to cede control, in such a situation.

Menolly wondered if Robinton actually _would_ like to be tied up, if he _actually_ wanted a fling with Lessa.

_Oh, by who? By you? I don’t know, would you like to do that some day? I admit, you always seemed like you might want to be the subservient one, which would be fun for a while, but I don’t really want to do that all the time, variety is the spice of life—_

“How come _he_ got the truth drug, but everything in _my_ head is coming out?” Menolly hissed at AIVAS. “I never asked for _this_ heart-to-heart talk!”

“We’ll explore that later.”

Robinton agreed they would, it was so easy to say things now, but he had a feeling his sober-self would be none too pleased. This was a type of drunk, right? But Menolly should stop blaming herself; she was hardly the only one with impure thoughts—and unlike _him_ , apparently, she wasn’t a mind-reader.

How was _he_ a mind-reader? He knew Lessa was one, not just a mind-reader but an influencer, he’d _felt_ her turn men’s thoughts, and had shuddered at the idea of having that horrible talent himself. He’d thought he was simply _attractive_ for dragons to talk to…comforting or something, like a worn and favorite doll. Dragon’s Favorite Harper. He certainly wasn’t HAD like Brekke…

At some point, they slowed down in their flight, to blend in with busier streets filled with ordinary pedestrians, and Menolly’s firelizards returned, orange-eyed and bloody-clawed. Zair returned too, clinging close to Robinton, their thoughts entwined, firelizard-man-firelizard-AI-firelizard-man-AI-firelizard…

AIVAS shepherded him onto a bubble-car, while Menolly paid for it, and then they could finally rest for a while.

#

Menolly knew the drug was wearing off once Robinton stopped talking non-stop in her _mind_ , his thoughts responding to hers uninhibitedly, and his easy, content-with-the-entire-world mood wore thin. He stared broodingly out the window, his face completely blank and unnaturally still, his hands closed fists on his knees.

Abruptly he said, “Eyes of Horus. Remember that, Menolly. It’s one layer of an onion. And red pointed leaves.”

“Maple leaves,” AIVAS clarified.

Robinton jerked his head in a tiny nod. “And brown and silver mountains. Like a Weyr symbol, but it’s no Weyr.”

They said nothing more on their way home. Too much had unwillingly been revealed, after all, and they both reveled in their renewed privacy of mind.

When they reached their transit stop, they got out. Robinton seemed to pay no attention to the other pedestrians around him, but something made them slide out of his way, just as Apprentices sensing their Master in a mood might. Menolly and AIVAS flanked him one step behind, riding in his wake.

When they reached the docks and had to go through security, he seemed to shake himself awake, and looked at AIVAS for a long time. AIVAS stared back. Then they resumed walking. Security seemed to not care overmuch about a walking doll, so long as it wasn’t concealing a bomb or something up its nethers, and with barely a glance at their screens, the three of them were waved through.

Partway across the docks, Robinton paused again, and looked at her. “Menolly?”

“Master?”

“For what it’s worth—I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have…invaded… like that, if I’d been able to prevent it.”

“I know it wasn’t your fault,” Menolly said softly.

AIVAS spoke. “You could consider it mine, though. He trusts you implicitly, so it didn’t occur to me to be more aggressive in redirecting his attention. I might have been able to spare you that, if I’d thought to try. But at the time I was mostly concerned any secrets he was spilling were spilled to someone he trusted. I didn’t consider how he was responding to your very thoughts _._ Or in your mind, like a dragon.”

She gave AIVAS an odd look. “It’s been clear for a while that you’re fallible, AIVAS. There’s no need to apologize for that.” An odd, fond smile appeared on her face. “I’ve been watching you feel things with your _feet_ most of the day…”

AIVAS didn’t seem to know how best to reply to that, and glanced down at his feet, which were still bare, and Robinton said nothing either.

They began walking again.

At the airlock of their ship, they paused again. Robinton closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and seemed to let the quiet, dire, and brooding aura slip from him.

It was the reverse, of course. He was donning a mask, in order to not panic his crew. This mask included gently sparkling eyes, fond smiles, and a relaxed cant for his shoulders. “Let’s go re-introduce AIVAS to the crew, shall we?”

#

AIVAS had faithfully called ahead at Robinton’s request to ask the crew meet them in the lounge. So when they entered the ship, Robinton was glad to find he wasn’t tripping over curious people in ones or twos, gawking at AIVAS. Good, the spectacle he had planned, would go off without a hitch…unlike most other plans.

(That was the comforting thing about being a Harper; you actually _rehearsed_ to ensure the show went on as planned! Real life allowed no such rehearsals, as they’d learned earlier today.)

Robinton set his bag down in the cargo hold, to retrieve later. Menolly put her unused stunner away, firelizards having proven far superior a defense in their ability to sow discord and confusion.

Climbing the ladder to the second level, Robinton called up to his people as he ascended in a ringing, dramatic voice, “Ladies, Gentlemen, and Honorable Herms!”

Curious faces peered at him in anticipation fired by his theatrical performance.

Tuck said, reliably fulfilling his role, “Who’re you calling a herm?”

“Well,” Robinton said, sauntering in and grasping the back of the closest chair, to drum his fingers on it, which Brekke happened to be sitting in. She tilted her head up at him suspiciously. “With the right medical procedures, that _could_ be me!”

A few laughs, some certain he was teasing, others…less certain. Who _knew_ what crazy things could happen on a world like Beta Colony? Especially since Robinton had already stuck a jump pilot implant in his head, without anyone’s by-your-leave.

Who knew indeed.

“But no. I am not the Honorable Herm here with us today. That person would be—“ and he gestured at the ladder.

Just as Menolly popped up.

_“Not_ her!” Robinton proclaimed, letting a note of panic touch his voice. Genuine laughs this time. “Who told _you_ to enter Stage Right?” Robinton demanded.

“Gosh, I didn’t even read the script,” Menolly said. She had the bag he’d discarded, and paced through the lounge to go toss it in his private room. “Do you want me to go back down and try again?”

“Oh, just sit down somewhere,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Look at this—you promote someone to Master, and they suddenly stop following their cues.”

“Yeah, we get sassy and troublesome,” Tuck said.

“If you think you had to be promoted all the way to Master to be sassy and troublesome,” Piemur said, “Boy do I feel sorry for you.”

Robinton cleared this throat conspicuously. “Anyway, I would like all of you to welcome—or rather, re-welcome, the Honorable Herm…” he paused dramatically, _“AIVAS_ to the crew.” And he gestured smoothly to the ladder.

_I thought you were going to teach me to play harp, not act on stage,_ AIVAS said, silently amused as he climbed up a ladder within a ship, instead of _being_ the ship, for the first time in his very long life. Then he approached Robinton and stood next to him, conspicuous in his Harper blue Betan sarong, and Southern-style embroidered vest.

“Wait,” Tuck said. “You weren’t kidding?”

AIVAS said, both through the tenor voice of his herm body and with his baritone voice through the speakers of the ship, “I’m afraid Robinton is not kidding at all. We thought it might be useful—“ and the ship speakers cut off so only the body was speaking, “For me to have a pair of hands. And considerably more mobility than I had at Landing.”

“That’s a sex-bot,” Tuck stated, still reliably playing his role.

“I’m a sex-bot only if I have sex,” AIVAS said. “Which would be none of your business if I did.”

Tuck took the rebuttal well, and fell thoughtfully silent.

AIVAS continued, “More pertinent to our situation, I can physically demonstrate tasks now, in order to aid learning—“

Robinton was certain that the crew did not quite understand yet how much of that learning was going to be AIVAS’s, not theirs. Had they noticed his bare feet?

“—and aid in defense, with a stunner, should the Harper send _you_ on important errands elsewhere.”

Silence, and stares of various types, ranging from astonished, to skeptical, to, in Lytol’s case, a despairing glance at Robinton, as if Robinton were a terrible misbehaving boy up to all sorts of mischief.

Then Jancis offered, “Would it be rude of me to ask what _model_ you are?”

“It would be,” AIVAS stated clearly.

She fell embarrassingly silent.

_“—if_ you weren’t the only one in the group who can read blueprints. I may need your help at some point in the future, if I have maintenance I can’t complete myself. I will forward schematics to your comconsole.”

Ruefully, Jancis said, “Thank you, AIVAS.”

“You’re welcome, Smith.”

Robinton said, “AIVAS is still AIVAS, he just sometimes will be in this _chassis_ , he calls it, instead of in the ship. I expect you to continue to give him the same respect as you already otherwise do, at all times.” AIVAS had already shut down the curiosity about his body’s origins, both with Tuck, and in another form, with Jancis, keeping it scientific with her only. But it was good to have an additional reminder of respect, given how his crew defaulted to humor and irreverence when absorbing shocks.

Brekke raised a hand, while looking at AIVAS.

“Weyrhealer?” AIVAS said.

“Betan hermaphrodites refer to themselves as _it_ , or sometimes _they_. What do we call you?”

“Whatever is most comfortable. ‘He’ is fine. Technically, I’m probably closer to the Cetagandan concept of ‘ba’ than a Betan ‘hermaphrodite’ or ‘it’, but I chose to appear as male very consciously during my initial introduction at Landing. You are all used to referring to me as ‘he’, and it harms nobody at all to continue addressing me as such, even if this body is a herm, so long as you do not forget and address an actual Betan herm incorrectly.”

A very complete answer to the question, as AIVAS’s answers tended to be.

“Do you sleep?” Swift asked. Perhaps wondering if someone would have to double up with AIVAS in their quarters.

“Not like any of you do, but I won’t always actively be using this chassis. So you may find ‘me’ immobile somewhere, if my attention is elsewhere. I will endeavor not to leave this body in unexpected places.”

“That’d actually be funny,” Menolly said. “I open the freezer for food, and AIVAS has stuck his body in there.”

Smiles.

“…I will endeavor to leave this body in unexpected places for _Menolly_ to find.”

“I _knew_ he had a sense of humor,” Piemur muttered.

The androgynoid paused to let people speak, but there were no more questions immediately forthcoming, so Robinton said to AIVAS, “Anything else to add?”

AIVAS paused, then admitted to the room, “Most of my social understanding is limited to verbal interaction, or things I have witnessed in front of my cameras. Moving a body around a three-dimensional plane is very new to me, and I sometimes find myself behaving in ways I only retroactively realize are incorrect and strange to others. Please bear with me on any gaffes I may make. I learn quickly, but I am not perfect.”

“Is that why you don’t have shoes on?” Brekke asked.

AIVAS looked at his feet. “My ability to walk is compromised if I can’t feel the sensors in my toes.”

Jancis commented, “That sounds like a manufacturing defect. You _should_ be able to walk with shoes on.”

Menolly said, “He just doesn’t like how they feel. We tried on Betan shoes today; they don’t fit at _all_ , so I can’t blame him not wanting to wear them. I’d go barefoot too if I had to wear Betan shoes.”

They actually did fit AIVAS, but Menolly had his back. Robinton approved, especially given how much AIVAS covered their backs.

AIVAS did not respond to correct Menolly, or address Jancis’s concerns about defects.

Then there really _were_ no more questions or comments.

Robinton said, “Lytol, do you have that calling card Menolly gave you earlier?”

Frowning, Lytol pulled it from a pocket and handed it to him.

Robinton took it and handed it to AIVAS, who pocketed it. Silently, Robinton said, _Can you anonymously call in that stunned herm to local medics? I feel that regardless of their involvement, we shouldn’t have left them alone there, unconscious. For an area with a crime rate that’s ‘manageable’, we certainly ran into something._

_Yes,_ AIVAS said in his head.

_Thank you_.

Then Robinton said, “Brekke?”

“Yes?”

“I heard everyone was able to be vaccinated today.”

She nodded. “I have one for you and Menolly too, whenever you’re free.”

“Give Menolly as soon as she’s free. I will take mine…in the near future.” After he was sure fast-penta and everything else was out of his system.

Brekke looked about to argue.

Robinton settled his gaze on her.

She shelved her opinion for the moment, but also obviously not for long.

Then he said to her, “Can you order us fast-penta for our medical stores?”

Her brows drew together. “Without diplomatic privileges? Unlikely, it’s illegal for civilians, unless they are specific types of Healers. It’s one of the few drugs outlawed in that way on Beta, even though they allow other questionable ones for recreational use.”

Robinton turned to Tuck. “Can you obtain fast-penta for our stores?”

“I’ll look into it.”

“That’s all I can ask. Thank you.”

Brekke seemed troubled. Given who her husband was, and her husband’s brother, Brekke was likely not used to operating in venues where she was _not_ considered, if not the authority, close to it. Robinton might have to talk to her privately later on.

_We need to tell her what happened to you._

Yes, AIVAS was right. He just couldn’t do it _yet_. It hadn’t even been more than an hour or two since it’d happened. That wasn’t enough _time_. Not really.

And he had to talk to Menolly. “That’s all for now,” he said to everyone. “I’ll be in my quarters. I don’t wish to be disturbed; if you have something I _must_ pay attention to immediately, run it by AIVAS please, and he will get me himself if it’s really that urgent. Menolly?”

“Yes?”

He nodded at her to follow him into his room.

She rose and followed.

#

“Fast-penta?” she said when they were alone.

Robinton paced from one end to the other of his quarters, found it wasn’t long enough, and forced himself to sit behind his desk. But the chair was bolted to the floor against the whims of wormhole jumps and freefall, and he couldn’t lean back to prop his heels on his desk. So he found himself on his feet again, and as a last resort, laid down across his bed on his back, if only so he wouldn’t climb the walls, and covered his face with his hands. 

“If it really does get the truth out of a person as it’s supposed to—and it seems it does, side-effects notwithstanding—it’s a humane revolution in information-gathering I never realized I could have. We need our own stores. But…we _also_ have to test it on ourselves.” He uncovered his face, and saw that Menolly had solemnly settled sideways in one of the chairs on the other side of his desk. “Maybe…we’re lucky…or unlucky…or lucky, I don’t know…and I’m the only one it acts that way on.”

AIVAS said from the speakers, “If I gambled, I would bet anyone with mentasynth heritage will react similarly to how you did, Harper. Several other people on your crew _will_ react, I am certain, if not every single one of them. We should test, for certainty.”

Menolly asked, deep concern on her face, “You think we’ll _all_ react like _that_ , AIVAS?”

“Yes. Very likely. I saw what happened in Robinton’s mind, the mechanism of the drug. He became open. Open to others. _Radically_ and _completely_ open. Whatever natural ways an empath or telepath develops to shield their minds from daily outside intrusion, I believe it temporarily ceased under the influence of fast-penta. Which is logical for an inhibition-reducing drug. I would expect similar effects will happen to _anyone_ with the telepathy or empathy-oriented mentasynth enhancements.”

Robinton said, “I fear what might happen to Lytol or Brekke.” They had both lost their dragons, that deep soul-bond. What would _they_ do if all their inhibitions, the things that kept them _living on_ , instead of flinging themselves into death, were removed? Lytol and Brekke lived on, but Robinton did not assume that wasn’t a daily struggle. He could see a sort of primeval darkness come into their eyes on their bad days. It was the reason people outside the Weyr (and if you were being honest, within it) didn’t like to interact with ex-riders too much, and they had _two_ with them, here on Beta Colony. Brekke had once screamed so loudly it woke Menolly up halfway across the world. Robinton suspected Lytol might produce something equally frightening if unconstrained by drugs. Lytol could get _strange_ when drinking.

And what if someone like Robinton was given fast-penta around Brekke or Lytol? Even if they were not given it themselves? How would _they_ react to his intrusive thoughts invading _their_ heads? He was sorrowful it had happened to Menolly, but Menolly as a bastion of stability compared to ex-riders, even revered ones such as Brekke and Lytol.

“We can’t _not_ warn them,” Robinton said. “We also can’t _not_ test. Maybe not with that pair specifically, but at least some of the others. And if any one of us can be compelled to give up secrets, simply by being drugged, that also influences what I tell people at all.” The last time he’d had to arrange his subordinates into extremely strict information-limited _cells_ was the era of Fax, due to the threat of torture. Losing one agent was bad enough; worse when one agent could uncover others.

He would _have_ to recruit Betan Apprentices, then. If only so he had sources that this crew could not reveal under fast-penta.

Fast-penta was _much_ better than torture—he was deeply _humiliated_ by what had happened, but he still had all his body parts—but that couldn’t allow him to be sloppy.

They were silent for a while. Then Menolly spoke. “What you said about Lessa—or thought, rather…”

“She does less and less of it, these days,” Robinton said.

That didn’t seem to comfort Menolly. It only comforted _him_ somewhat.

“Influence others with her mind?” She stroked brown Mimic, who had appeared out of _between_ to sit on her lap. “When did you discover that she did it at all?”

Robinton said, “For _turns_ , I tried to figure out why Ruatha declined as quickly as it did under Fax. I sent people there, to figure out if I could duplicate the effects of Ruatha in Fax’s other Holds, to discourage his expansion. I naively thought that if everything he touched turned to ashes in his mouth, perhaps he would think he was over-extending, and try to actually _govern_ his Holds. I didn’t realize until Lessa had Impressed, and I witnessed her leaning on people in order to swing them Benden’s way, that _she_ had been behind ‘Ruatha’s curse’ all along. Once she was no longer in Ruatha, and Lytol was governing it, it sprang back quickly. He had to replace _everyone_ , however. Even the people who might otherwise have been adequate when not under Fax’s hand, or the hands of his lackeys, were…infirm. Mentally.” Robinton eyed Menolly. “The curse of Ruatha was effectively real. Not superstition. But sustained by _one_ small woman, and her very justified rage.” He stared at the ceiling. “But the rage has mellowed, with time. Thankfully.”

“Has she ever leaned on you?”

Robinton’s thoughts went back to those early days, just after thread began to fall again. “Almost…but no. She gathered her power to do it, once, when I was standing in their way, or she perceived me to be. I felt it, and I just looked at her. F’lar was there, and he just looked at her too. She stopped. She has her pride, or her shame, or perhaps the feel of a mind that _knows_ she’s influencing it is painful to her, compared to one that is completely unaware of her manipulation.”

“But you’d still consider a ‘fling’ with her,” Menolly said softly. Then she backtracked. “That was unkind of me. Everyone has odd thoughts now and again. I certainly do. Who am I to throw stones?”

“My taste in partners has always been unusual,” Robinton murmured. “The fast-penta is accurate in revealing that.” His wife had been older than himself by several turns, and a widow _._ Several Harpers had questioned at the time why he’d marry a “used” woman, when he was so young and promising and likely to become, if not Masterharper, follow his sire’s footsteps as Composition Master.

F’lon had been…F’lon, a whirlwind of merriness, emotions, and complete lack of desire to commit to _anything_ deeper, in true weyrbred fashion. 

Menolly was not wrong about Lessa…if Lessa hadn’t been fastidiously loyal to F’lar, and sometimes affected by the ghosts of manners of propriety taught to her by her Lady of Ruatha mother, he’d even call that sort of attraction _fatal_ attraction. As it were, it gave their interactions an odd sizzle of chemistry that F’lar, completely trusting in her loyalty, graciously ignored. (Possibly because he did not know what to do at the times Robinton looked at him and remembered F’lon.)

Menolly was, er, the complete reverse of his situation with Kasia, where _he_ was the widower, and _he_ the elder, but magnified by many more turns. And this deep, unforgivable chasm of rank.

And he had no idea what game AIVAS was playing with him, selecting a hermaphrodite body and then tailoring a face to Robinton’s personal interests. AIVAS had not yet seen fit to enlighten him. (Robinton waited, knowing his thoughts were heard. AIVAS _still_ continued to neglect enlightening him.)

It was aggravating. And, perhaps, a mirror to the self.

He sat up again, sat on the edge of his bed. Desperately wanting to call her over next to him, so he could hold her. Well aware that could be domineering, or more likely, drawing her to him when _he_ wanted comfort, but pushing her away if she sought it from _him_ too freely.

To other people, who were around him less often, his attention acted like a refreshing rain. With Menolly, or Sebell, or anyone he was close to…it threatened to be an overwhelming tsunami, a permanent magnet inescapably binding them to him. And he very much didn’t want to bowl anyone over. Or permanently bind them. Unconsciously, he put his hands between his knees, as if restraining his tendency to be handsy.

He sorted through hundreds of words, thousands of wildly diverging plans of attack, found flaws in all of them. You could not plan or rehearse for the unpredictable. Unpredictable was _unpredictable_ , by its nature.

Eventually he settled on a simple opener. “Truth-drugging me didn’t go as planned, eh?”

Menolly laughed, although it held a hint of despair or exasperation. “It wasn’t _serious_ , and I didn’t _expect_ someone else to go and do it for me.”

“Say you _were_ serious, and it had gone as planned, and there’s no inconvenient issues of consent or what-have-you to inspire guilt. Everything is above-board. Say we went to Betan _therapy_ , or something, and there was an ethical way to employ fast-penta voluntarily. What truth do you hope to find in me?”

_“Would_ you?”

“Would I what?”

“Go to Betan therapy?”

He opened and closed his mouth. Eventually he managed, “…for what purpose?”

Menolly said, “Well, there’s different types of therapy, from what I’ve read. Therapy for childhood experiences. Therapy for bereavement, or trauma. Couples therapy, sexual therapy. Mid-life crisis therapy. Therapy for people retiring from long careers. Jump pilot therapy. They are thorough in exploring the psyche, for a people who don’t seem to be telepaths.” She peered at him, from under her lashes. “Do you fit into any of those groups?”

He liked it when she was sly, because he loved cleverness, but also hated it a little when it hit. “Ah, so they could explain why my sire was a monster?” he said lightly, before remembering Petiron had protected her at Half-Circle. Then he cursed himself. “He was good to you, and for that he’s redeemed himself,” he allowed.

“You’ve never really elaborated on your relationship with him,” Menolly said cautiously.

Robinton shook his head. “Bringing it up now is a smoke-screen,” he said. “A distraction from other topics. I’m fairly certain what’s bothering us currently is _not_ my childhood trauma.” He paused. “Besides, your own eclipses mine.” _Speaking_ of things rarely elaborated on…

Which, like him, she chose not to do even now, given the perfect opening.

Instead, she answered his original question. What would she ask, if she had him under a truth-serum? “I suppose I’d want to know if you loved me. But not exactly that, because I know the answer already…knew it, even before today. I _think_ I want to weigh and dissect and categorize that love…which is very likely a good way to destroy it,” she said in self-awareness.

_How_ did he love her, in _what ways_ did he love her? There were infinite songs on the topic of love, exploring it from every angle, and somehow they were never adequate or enough to catalog the love the bloomed anew in every person in every generation. Every Harper wrote their own love songs, deeming prior ones inadequate.

(If he wouldn’t allow himself to drag her over _here_ and tuck her under his arm, so they could talk about love, lovingly, he wanted to go over there and drape himself over the back of the chair, and her. He’d make for a poor blanket, though, thin and full of bones…)

…it occurred to him that the _type_ of love she wanted to dissect him to find might very well be the type he was suppressing, even if he gave her the rest more freely. Because it was as physical as it was intellectual.

He wasn’t entirely sure how that worked, though. He was much older than her, he _looked_ older than her, and she had a young husband. What could he possibly offer _physically_ given what she had access to was equal or superior? Intellectual, perhaps he had something to offer. Physical… _he_ didn’t think so…but what if her opinion differed?

He could _ask_ , but what if he didn’t like the answer?

Except that seemed like a good way to refuse to learn anything at all. Refraining from all questions because it was possible all the answers would hurt.

“I admit,” he said slowly. “I can’t wrap my head around Sebell being irrelevant here. You are rarely willfully cruel, and _do_ seem to like him, _just a little bit.”_ He smiled slightly at his own understatement.

Menolly let out a long breath. “I’m not sure you want the answer to that one.”

“Why not?”

“You do acrobatics avoiding complications…and might just break your neck if another complication is added.”

“Perhaps my metaphorical neck. Luckily, it’s not attached to my physical neck. Or, not exactly…”

She sighed, as if contemplating doing something she shouldn’t. Then, finding steel in her spine, she said, “Because he more or less likes you the same way I do. He just thinks _I_ have _a better chance_ at _selling_ it to you.” She seemed excessively interested in Mimic’s wings as she said this, then muttered. “If I didn’t just bollox it up.”

…yes, he’d almost forgotten his initial defenses against taking advantage of his own Apprentices didn’t start with Menolly. Although he’d thought Sebell had grown out of that. Young men sometimes did. _Usually_ did, in his observance of Harper Hall unrequited loves. “So he didn’t grow out of that after all,” Robinton said mildly. As if he were commenting idly on the rain.

Menolly’s eyes widened in a way that communicated, loudly, that _grow out_ was _exactly_ the wrong word.

“So you two come as a set?” Robinton inquired, sensing an easy way to put this entire question permanently to rest. His feelings weren’t a set; whatever he figured out in terms of Menolly was unique with her. Sebell was an entirely different topic to tackle.

(Especially as Menolly had just indicated Sebell wanted to be tackled.)

“No,” she said slowly. “We’re still our own people.” Then she said, “The Betans have a word for it. And the weyrs _practice_ it, wordlessly. Or, sometimes not-so-wordlessly when things go wrong. But the concept is there.”

He waited.

“It’s called ‘polyamory’. Many loves. Pernese seem to blunder through it—“

That wasn’t untrue, if he understood what she was saying.

“—but the Betan form of it is based in direct communication and respect. Sebell and I were already most of the way there, but the _cultural videos_ gave me a better vocabulary to articulate it with. And validation, I think.”

“How does it work?” he asked her cautiously.

Menolly had an amazing amount to say about polyamory, once it was clear he wasn’t about to shut her down, or react negatively, or lash out. It was almost if she’d been truth-drugged herself. She occasionally dropped into firelizard metaphors…her queen and aunties all shared the same pool of mates, and with Kimi and Farli as well, and the boys didn’t seem to dislike each other when one or another of them caught a queen or a green. The faire, as a whole, Menolly’s plus other local firelizards, got along and operated as a whole. “Not that _we_ are firelizards,” she concluded. “Not at all. But we could learn from them sometimes, I think.”

But the gist of it was that she and Sebell were open—very open, from her understated glossing over of it—to adding _him_ to their relationships. Even if it ended up being more with Menolly than with Sebell. Sebell would be disappointed…but people were disappointed about that sort of thing all the time. “—and it wasn’t as if he hasn’t had practice,” Menolly said, mimicking her husband’s rueful tones recognizably. And she said other things that were also recognizably quotes from Sebell, and not just herself speaking.

Some of the stress that had been tying Robinton up in knots eased, as Menolly relaxed into trusting him and talking to him. 

But as he tried to understand, one thing ate at his mind. “Silvina once told me,” he said, then hesitated, afraid of jumping ahead of himself. “I think it’s obvious, but in case it wasn’t, Silvina and I were once a couple. It didn’t last, and we never married.”

“I know.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “She broke it off with me. And told me my heart was still with Kasia.” He pursed his lips pensively for a moment. “If she was _right_ , I wonder…am I too monogamous to be compatible with this Betan idea of polyamory? I don’t really know, but she seemed to think I was…inflexible.” He snorted suddenly. _“Have_ you two been speaking to Silvina?”

Menolly looked slightly guilty.

“Because she never did really stay with any one Harper. Wanted to try them all.”

“We’ve talked a little with her,” Menolly confirmed. “She’s wise.”

Robinton found himself chucking, then laughing. He wasn’t sure why he found this funny, but it was. Silvina _was_ wise. Wiser than he was, often. They’d complimented each other, as Masterharper and Headwoman, even if nothing else had fully worked out.

“Not to talk about a relationship I know nothing about,” Menolly said. “But some loves burn hotter than others. Perhaps hers was warmer for you than yours for her…not from anything to do with your wife, but simply the nature of the relationship between you and Silvina. I mean, this is all theoretical for me, but I’ve _read_ ,” and she rolled her eyes a little at herself, “—that not all relationships are or _have_ to be the same for a person. Same intensity, same activities. You and me are different than you and Sebell. Which is different from me and Sebell. Which is fine, and normal.”

“That seems too easy,” Robinton said after a while. _It is what it is—_ so simply _accept_ it?

Far, far, too easy.

“…acknowledging that loves are different and unique? Why, does love require or necessitate struggle?”

Just like that, Robinton had an epiphany.

And yes, it _was_ linked to childhood trauma. And struggle.

Covering his eyes with his hands, he flopped backwards onto his bed with an inarticulate, agonized sound. Every single relationship he’d had— _every one!_ —had involved some sort of insurmountable barrier or struggle. One man against the universe.

His sire’s virulent jealousy of him, almost like he thought Robinton was a _rival_ instead of a son. That had been a struggle, a struggle to prove himself worthy of a love that should have been his by birthright. His mother had even _run off_ with him, across an entire continent, simply to protect him from his sire, tainting his relationship with her too, giving it the specter of guilt, that Robinton _existing_ and needing love and affection from his own mother had driven his parents apart.

With Kasia, he’d gone to great effort to gently draw her out of her shell. He’d learned from his sire, after all, that loving required several attempts on _his_ part to reach out, to be _good enough_ to love. With Kasia his efforts had been rewarded. And when she died, his love had been entwined with that abrupt loss, and the struggle of going on without her.

With F’lon, love had been a hidden, private dance, the struggle one of secrecy, of not letting it get _too_ intense, because Holders and Crafters were generally intolerant of men partnering with men. And then F’lon had dropped him for Larna…and then gotten himself killed, leaving everything unresolved.

(Robinton’s private guilt was that he hadn’t checked up on young F’lar or F’nor in the aftermath. Had soothed himself the weyr would raise them on its own, or foster them. They didn’t _need_ their sire’s former lover watching over them, and he was so far away, and Masterharper to thousands of other young men he had a responsibility towards…)

With Silvina, the birth of Camo and his disabilities had been a blow. Robinton had felt it an impossibly cruel fate that Petiron had rejected a son’s accomplishments and love, while _he_ had to work and work and _work_ with the patience of a saint to help Camo achieve the smallest of victories. Why had Petiron been simply _given_ things he just casually threw away?! He’d even thrown Menolly away at the end, leaving Robinton to frantically search around for her, thinking her musical genius lost or snuffed out forever, without realizing she _was_ a her because Petiron hadn’t _bothered_ to tell him _that important little fact_.

And with Sebell, and then Menolly, love was complicated by the chasm of rank, and the very real fears for their futures if he behaved incorrectly. It would be too easy to overwhelm them with his own presence.

Not that he could harm Sebell _now_ , he realized. The man was Masterharper. And Menolly was nearly as secure in her rank…although her reputation could still be bruised.

(But, given their conversation…a thought struck him. Sebell would _cover_ for him? If someone accused them of acting incorrectly? It was unthinkable. Too _easy._ What man helped his _wife_ pursue someone? Yet, he was suddenly as sure as the nose on his face that yes, Sebell would squash any rumors handily, if necessary.)

But yes, everyone close to him had come with a struggle. Even his attraction to Lessa was in part due to his acceptance of struggle. As well as his boredom with other, calmer partners when it wasn’t there as he expected it to be.

Love was a struggle. A never-ending struggle.

And giving up the struggle was like _giving up on love_.

Eventually the bed indented, and Menolly said next to him, “I seem to have broken you, but I don’t know exactly which bit did it. Was it only the last part, or everything leading up to it?”

Still with his palms over his eyes, he said, “I expect love to be hard. So, sometimes, I make it hard.”

She was quiet for a while, but he could hear her breathing, she was that close. Then she said, nearly in his ear, “Yes, I noticed that about you. But I thought maybe you knew something I didn’t.”

He shook his head, back and forth, back and forth, and laughed. “No, Menolly.” He uncovered his face, laced his fingers over his belly. She was stretched out alongside him, close but not touching, her head pillowed on her arm. He shook his head at her again. “I’m simply a creature of habit.”

They looked at each other, and he was sorely, sorely tempted to break that habit and kiss her—

—but all he could imagine was going further, and further, and _further_ with that, and then the rest of the day would be gone, and the crew scandalized as the firelizards would gossip far and wide after they were done being dirty little voyeurs—

And he _had_ to talk to the others about fast-penta, and what had happened to them. Absolutely had to, for their own safeties. _Why_ had it happened? Who had done it?

What _were_ those symbols he’d picked up in his telepathic, open-minded state? Where did following them lead him? Was their ship going to be ambushed at any moment?

He really did have a fire on his hands, and he had to disseminate information.

He also knew himself well enough to realize that he historically used fires relating to duty to obscure personal uncertainties. So it was very likely if he changed tracks now, he’d never return to this one. This one full of opportunity, simply because his mind had cracked open enough for a few instants to accept that maybe he didn’t need to _struggle_ for love, or stage elaborate displays that proved he was _worthy_ of it, and could simply _accept_ what was freely given.

“I am in a quandary, Menolly,” he said. “Will you help me with it?”

“If I can,” she said.

“This conversation, that we’re having, is important to me.” He gave in a slight bit to his craving for touch, took her free hand, placed it over his heart, and covered it with his own hands.

Covered his artificial heart. It beat unusually steadily, despite all his turmoil.

“I also honestly believe we need to address what happened to us with the crew. Sooner than later. For their safety. And this personal conversation could, er…continue. For quite a long time. If I don’t shift tracks.”

He saw her understand what that meant. And something that had low-key simmered beneath the surface threatened to boil over right then.

He looked away. Felt even his artificial heart speed up; it was not immune to adrenaline. To the wall he said (although her hand was warm beneath his), “When we have a moment that’s not potentially full of immediate threats to life and limb—can you, perhaps…maybe…tie me to a mast, aaaaaand—“

_Have your way with me?_ an out-of-control thought suggested.

He tried to find a better way of phrasing it.

(His body, and brain, were _quite certain_ that WAS the best way of phrasing it.)

“And?” she said.

“Oh, I’m trying to find a better phrase to use than what I _desire_ to say,” he admitted with unusual candor.

“I could find you some more fast-penta,” she teased. “It’s been at least five minutes, Tuck probably already knows a man.”

He turned his head back and _looked_ at her. Her eyes were dancing.

Suspecting he might regret it, he said, “Well, I _said_ ‘tie me to a mast’, and my mind _wants_ to complete it with _'and have your way with me'._ But what I mean potentially includes concepts like _talking_ and _conversation_ , which the color of that phrase doesn’t include by default.”

“…only potentially?” Her smile was wide, and her eyes still danced. Somehow he’d expected her to continue to be shy, but she wasn’t at all, not once they crashed through the topic of polyamory. 

She was _teasing_ him, mischievously.

A wave of fond frustration boiled up. “Look, my dearest Harpress, _I’m_ the one tied to a mast here. I won’t have much control over anything, I’m ceding it to you!”

Menolly seemed to find that to be the funniest thing ever, and rolled onto her back, laughing, and laughing, and _laughing._

“If you want to _talk_ to me, good. Fantastic! Excellent! Splendid, wonderful, all those two-mark words. If you want to do other things to me—well, I suppose you get to do them! That’s the entire _point_ of tying me to a mast!” he said, shaking both hands in emphasis to illustrate it all. “To stop my creatures of habits. Or habits of creatures. Or to make new habits.”

“Oh my stars, I _did_ break you!”

“Just promise me you’ll drag me kicking and screaming back to this conversation, if I pause it now and go out there to spin plates.”

Wiping tears from the corners of her eyes, she just looked at him again. “You realize you wouldn’t be able to _prevent_ me at this point? Asking me to _promise_ after all of this is like asking me to _promise_ to feed my firelizards. There’s no way I wouldn’t already do it!”

“Well, it’s not like I don’t have a habit of running away from things,” Robinton said, and with a grunt, raised himself up on one arm. “A very strong, persistent habit. What if I’m simply running away again?” he said, and leaned over to look into her face. “So set a trap for me,” he urged, and tapped her on the tip of her nose.

She wrinkled it.

And then he did something ill-advised, and kissed her on the mouth. Just a brief press of lips, much less than he wanted, much more than he should have.

“And now I’m running away!” he said in a fey little gremlin tone, and laughed slightly manically as he pushed himself off of the bed.

Menolly sat up, rubbing her lips. From all the expressions that danced across her face, she still adored him, as unwise as that was. And she intended to be patient with his nonsense. Otherwise known as duties.

But maybe not too patient.

Surely he was good enough at handling fires, intrigue, and other political dangers quickly enough to find a little more free time again, _soon_ …

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ::checks story rating:: Ah, okay. I'm covered to go _anywhere I want_. Past-me is extremely wise. Shipping habits can't be denied, I guess.
> 
> Anyway, apparently giving Robinton a jolt of truth-serum is not unlike giving the right person the right dose of shrooms at the right time. Completely reset his brain. Although, he could probably use a good dose of Betan therapy. I wonder if there's couples discounts. And would Robinton, carrying AIVAS in his head, count as one person, or two?
> 
> Also, one of my favorite things to do with this story is to give an entirely true, and entirely understated, summary of a chapter. _AIVAS eats a pretzel_. Yeah, like that's ALL that goes on here, _psh._
> 
> It was a sexy pretzel, tho...


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaxom looks like _who_?
> 
> Rated "E" for "Explicit". But not for Jaxom.
> 
> Although if someone WANTS to go write that ship...godspeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ::gestures wildly at the _Explicit_ rating::
> 
> Just sayin', since we're 90,000 words in, nearly, and everything up to here has been mild.

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

Robinton’s reveal of the attack caused justifiable dismay, but Menolly found herself in a strange euphoria the whole time—even while she and Brekke gathered in the Healer room to clean firelizard claws and teeth, so any DNA could be sequenced and maybe even matched to the individuals that had attacked them.

After they finished cleaning a few firelizards, Brekke spoke. “There’s more going on than just the attack,” she correctly deduced, for the wrong reasons…if she were reading Menolly’s fey mood.

“Yes,” Menolly said. “But we needed to get this from the firelizards before they cleaned themselves up. “And make sure they weren’t hurt.” None of them had even a scratch on them, thankfully. Menolly praised each and every one about how _brave_ and _ferocious_ they were. And _fast_ about getting _between_.

“I mean AIVAS.”

“What about him?”

Brekke was silent for a long while. Then she said, nervously, “Why does he look like F’nor?”

Oh. _Oh_. Yes, that would be disturbing to Brekke, wouldn’t it? “Coincidence,” Menolly said.

“I’m not sure I believe that.”

“It actually is, I’m afraid. AIVAS modeled himself, in part, on F’lon.”

“You mean F’lar?”

“No, I mean F’lon.”

“I don’t understand…”

“AIVAS looking like F’nor really _is_ coincidence. F’nor is F’lon’s son. And AIVAS looks like F’lon’s brother, or cousin, therefore he also looks like F’nor.”

“That seems like such an odd thing to do…”

“Not when you understand that F’lon and Robinton were close. Best friends, as boys.”

This seemed a complete surprise to Brekke. “Really. The Harper knew F’nor’s sire?”

Menolly nodded.

“F’nor’s never mentioned that. He said he only ran into Robinton regularly when the Harper Hall began backing Benden politically…”

“I don’t know the full history, and it’s not my tale to tell, but Robinton knew F’lon before then. Consider that F’lon was Benden Weyrleader, and Robinton was Masterharper. When AIVAS selected his face, he drew on a repertoire of semi-recognizable people. He wanted to look _Pernese_ , not Betan. You’re not the only one startled by a face you almost know, coming from that algorithm.” Privately, Menolly thought AIVAS or Robinton had been influenced by Brekke’s dark auburn hair. In a way, AIVAS _also_ looked like he could be F’nor and Brekke’s child, which might be subconsciously unnerving Brekke.

Sealing the tubes with bits of dried blood and solvent in them, Brekke said, “Well, I wasn’t expecting a herm, either. If he’s trying to look Pernese, that works against him.”

Menolly shrugged. “He may also be trying to challenge us. AIVAS does like to do that, from time to time.”

“I suppose so.”

The doorway of the small medic room was shadowed suddenly by Robinton. Menolly felt herself lighting up in response, and he _looked_ at her for a long, warm second before forcibly turning to Brekke. Although likely nobody but Menolly knew that redirection of his attention was forced. “Brekke, Menolly—come to my quarters so we can talk about this?” and he waggled a dose of fast-penta in its tube.

“Just us?” Brekke said.

“And Lytol, he’s already there.”

AIVAS was already there too, sitting on the bed. Menolly went to sit next to him, tweaked one of his bare toes playfully (he gazed at her with curious amber eyes and no other obvious reaction), and Lytol and Brekke took the seats before Robinton’s comconsole desk. Robinton paced about like a chained wher, and closed the door, before returning to his pacing.

“You’re making me dizzy, Harper,” Lytol chided. “Sit down.”

Robinton did, setting the dose of fast-penta in the center of the desk, but immediately tapped a tune on the edge of the comconsole with his fingers. Menolly didn’t recognize the beat. Then he forcefully folded his hands in his lap, and said without his usual preamble, “More happened during that attack than I revealed.”

“I suspected as much,” Lytol said, and waited for the Harper to explain.

“It concerns a side-effect of fast-penta that galactics don’t experience, but potentially every one of us Pernese could experience in some form.”

“…were you dosed?” Brekke asked.

Robinton nodded solemnly.

“What happened?” Lytol asked. “What did you tell them?” Menolly detected a faint hint of panic in Lytol, perhaps from his voice or the widening of an eye normally hooded by scarring.

“Firelizards intervened, thanks to Menolly’s faire and Zair, and I told them nothing. A fast-penta interrogation requires a quiet room, a single interrogator, and no distractions.” Robinton laughed. “I had multiple interrogators, in an open space, with hundreds of distractions. I couldn’t keep a single line of thought straight in my head, and the interrogators were bleeding and screaming—I am happy to say, they didn’t manage a single question!” His voice was merry. Then he sobered. “But the side-effect was considerable, and unexpected, and has profound consequences for us.”

He fell silent after that, fingers still drumming a little beat against the comconsole.

“Yes?” Brekke prodded when Robinton stared over their shoulders at nothing.

Refocusing himself, Robinton said, “AIVAS says that fast-penta works by lowering inhibitions. The person under its influence becomes malleable to outside suggestion, and when a person is asked to do something, they simply do it. Including divulging truths, secrets and personal opinions that might be hidden under a veneer.” He took a steadying breath. “When my inhibitions were lowered to that extent, I simply wanted to be _one_ with the world. And I began to hear the thoughts of everybody around me.”

From the bed, AIVAS said, “I believe the drug, in addition to its usual effects, also lowered any natural defenses a telepath or empath builds to keep others out of their minds. So when Robinton was administered the drug, his natural telepathy emerged.”

“Which is significant,” Robinton said, forging ahead although it was clear to Menolly that this topic was uncomfortable for him. “Because I am not even a dragonrider. I was _not_ Searched. If fast-penta does this to _me_ , what will it do to you two? Brekke, you already hear all dragons. With fast-penta, you will probably hear-all-humans, too. And something similar for you, Lytol.”

The two of them were stunned into silence.

But Robinton continued. “Additionally, Menolly also said that when I was under the influence, I _spoke_ to her, in her mind.”

Menolly took this as her cue. “It was like when I am addressed by Ruth or any other dragon, but it was very obviously Robinton. He responded to my thoughts as if I were speaking them aloud. _He_ was the one under the truth-drug, but it was _my_ thoughts that were up for display.”

“I’m sorry,” Robinton said to her again.

She waved it away. It’d been a small price to pay, for the possibilities that had blossomed afterwards. She had just wanted to emphasize to Brekke and Lytol how serious the issue was, especially when you involved people who were not close or friendly with one another. She and Robinton had worked to overcome the division it’d sown even between _them_ ; others would not have that opportunity.

“Now,” Robinton said. “Will that happen to Tuck? Piemur? Jancis? Swift? If another one of us is grabbed, it may be unexpectedly traumatic for us, beyond what galactics expect. We need to prepare everyone for that possibility. But, also, it is an opportunity to gather information of our own. I learned that—“

“Harper,” Lytol interrupted.

“…yes?”

“Do you _still_ hear thoughts?”

A severe shake of the head. “No, no, it wore off when the fast-penta did,” Robinton said. “Thankfully.”

AIVAS suddenly pressed against Menolly’s arm, and when she turned, startled, he whispered, “Repeated exposure may change that.” His breath tickled her ear.

She blinked at him. But he said nothing more.

Robinton went on, “—I learned that the individuals who tried to question me were not who they seemed. Even to each other. The man who grabbed me appeared to be any other galactic, but he had layers to his mind, a hidden allegiance, and after having done a bit of research on _this_ symbol,” he summoned up an eye with dramatic eyeliner, “—called an ‘Eye of Horus’, it appears he’s a part of the security division of Barrayar’s Imperial Security, or ImpSec. That organization, that _Crafthall_ , protects the Emperor of Barrayar, and is _rumored_ to conduct—although we can personally confirm it is not a rumor—espionage throughout other galactic hubs. I do not believe the other individuals with him were aware that his deeper allegiance was to ImpSec, instead of to them.”

Lytol’s tic was back, twitching his scarred cheek.

“In addition to that, there were a series of other thoughts I picked up, that also led back to Barrayar. I believe it might even be a case of the right hand not knowing what the left is doing. But one of the individuals involved seemed loyal not to ImpSec, but to a scion of a major Barrayaran Hold governed by a Bloodline called _Vorkosigan_. The current Lord—or ‘Count’ as the Barrayarans call it—is Aral Vorkosigan, also known galactically as the Butcher of Komarr.”

“The one that video was about,” Lytol said.

“Yes,” Robinton said, and called up an image of a close-faced, stocky man on the shorter side. The resemblance to his pornographic counterpart was vague and minimal. His military uniform was both vaguely familiar to Menolly, but also different enough to be alien. _Almost_ Pernese. But not quite.

Robinton touched the comconsole again, and summoned another image, of a boyish-looking snub-nosed fellow who might be a steward or unremarkable Journeyman somewhere. “This man is named Simon Illyan. His rank is Captain, which is similar to the rank of Journeyman, but it’s ceremonial only. He’s the head of ImpSec, essentially their Craftmaster.”

Menolly watched Robinton’s blue eyes settle on the image for a moment, and realized the Harper was sizing up his rival. If ImpSec had administered fast-penta to Robinton, and Simon Illyan was their Craftmaster, responsibility for what had happened to Robinton ultimately fell on him, as it did on any Craftmaster.

Perhaps Robinton had decided to take it _personally_.

Then Robinton called up a third picture, this one a mere stripling compared to the other two men, about the same age as Menolly, albeit draped in the finery of a Lord. He had the most _uncanny_ resemblance to Lord Jaxom, if Lord Jaxom were taller and thinner, had hazel eyes instead of blue, and had never Impressed Ruth to cheer him up. Menolly noticed Lytol saw it too, jerking his head up slightly, his brown eyes widening before they became slightly sad.

Menolly made a note to tell Jaxom that Lytol had missed him. Jaxom had made enough comments in her hearing that she knew he couldn’t always tell if Lytol even _liked_ him, the ex-dragonrider was so reserved and so duty-bound.

Robinton said, “This is Emperor Gregor Vorbarra. He is essentially a High Lord, all the Counts under him owe allegiance, as a Holder would to a Lord Holder. He’s come of age only within the past few turns to step into his duties as Emperor; previously, the acting Emperor was Aral Vorkosigan, as Lord Regent. Similar to how you were Lord Warder, Lytol. Vorkosigan is now currently something called a Prime Minister, and reports to the Emperor, as Captain Illyan does.”

Brekke said, “Their Craftmasters report to Lords? They’re not autonomous?”

Robinton nodded. “It’s peculiar, but it _does_ work to unite their planet…er, their _planets_ , they have three…against outside threat. It’s different from us, but perhaps—“ and here Robinton decided not to say more on that topic, waving his thoughts away. “In any event, these two men,” he wagged a finger at Vorkosigan and Illyan, “—report to this one.”

“But what did they want with you?” Lytol asked. “Why would they try to interrogate you? Who are _we_ to them?” A sudden worry creased his face. “Do they _know_ we saw those videos?”

“Wait,” Menolly said. “Should _I_ have seen some sort of video?” She’d been much too interested in polyamory to pay attention to anything Barrayaran.

Lytol looked somewhat strangled.

Brekke just shook her head.

“If they were upset at us having seen propaganda,” Robinton said slowly, “Then it follows they would have had to plant it on that Betan ship, and somehow direct a random number of our people to one specific video. Simply to entrap us into seeing it? And then go after me for it, in retaliation or punishment?” Robinton snorted. “Seems unlikely.”

Brekke said, “Lytol had a good point though—why _did_ they want you?”

Menolly said, “On Pern, it’s usually people who resist change, and fear technology, who target Master Robinton. But galactics are far more advanced than we are. We’ve been here _two days_ , that’s not enough time to build a _reputation_ —even for you,” Menolly said to Robinton.

He smiled, and it made her feel warm. _Blast,_ a crush that had settled down into an everyday low-key simmer was blazing like the sun now! And her smiling cheerfully through meetings about kidnappers and espionage wasn’t exactly going to be _subtle_. She dropped her eyes before she could do something stupid like grin back at him. The last thing everyone needed was two lovesick Harpers grinning fatuously through a crisis!

“So there has to be some element we’re not yet aware of,” Robinton said, attempting to tip his chair back, and being rudely jolted by its bolted-down immobility. He rubbed the resulting sore-spot on his back.

AIVAS said, “If I’m truly the only strong AI around, I could be a target. To take by force, or to destroy. But I don’t see how they would have identified me as that, yet. I’ve only used the minimum I’ve needed to access any information, and once I gained the common communication protocols, I’ve no longer had to send out probes that might be logged as unusual. I’ve also taken care not to interact with governmental interfaces. Beta Colony has so much information publicly available, it’s not really needed. I even time my requests, so it looks like a human with human response-times is interacting with the net.”

“That’s clever,” Menolly said.

AIVAS shook his head. “Necessary. Many sites intended for human use break down if you attempt to access them too quickly. It uncovers hidden bugs in their programming that they never bothered paying anyone to find and fix.”

“Lazy Crafters try to cut corners everywhere, I suppose,” Robinton said.

Brekke said, “Could they be aware of… _timing_ it?”

AIVAS shook his head again. “I don’t see how. But, the firelizards going _between_ will draw someone’s notice, if it hasn’t already. Teleportation is not known to galactics any more than strong AI is.”

Menolly said, “The people who attacked us weren’t prepared for firelizards. Attacking us because of _between_ doesn’t make sense in that light. And all of us are smart enough to never mention _timing_ it…ever.”

“Nor do we have a dragon to do it with, even if we were tempted,” Robinton said. He rubbed his face. “Hmm, come to think of it, if Pern is ever in regular galactic communication, it’ll be hard to explain away the Oldtimers. Spreading word of Lessa’s great deeds was necessary at the time when I wrote her ballad, to restore faith in the Weyrs and the leadership of Benden…but now, it makes us a target if galactics do not have such an ability. Let’s excise Lessa’s Ballad out of our repertoire for now...as much as it pains me. And avoid talking about Oldtimers. If they come up by mistake, perhaps make it seem as if they were simply very, very reclusive. It’s probably for the best D’ram was unable to join us on this jaunt.”

Lytol said, “I know you thought the ships that tried to follow us were little more than Holdless that the Betan Navy chased off, but we should examine that event in more detail. Perhaps they are still interested in us.”

AIVAS said, “I just ran their codes, now that I’m up to date with public databases, and they’re registered as the Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet, out of Jackson’s Whole. They are mercenaries, so they’re beholden to whomever is funding them at the time.”

“Do we have any idea who that is?” Robinton asked.

“No, they only declare allegiances to a client when they are openly hired by governments.”

Lytol asked, “What sort of governments have hired them in the past?”

“Moderately wealthy ones that do not keep a standing fleet of their own, due to a lack of resources, or a lack of ship manufacturing capability.”

Lytol asked, “How much do they cost?”

“You’re thinking of bribing them?” Robinton asked. “Or buying them?”

Lytol shrugged.

“More than we currently have,” AIVAS said. “We are barely maintaining a single ship, much less hiring a fleet. Pernese trade will have to need to actually become trade and not a trickle.”

Menolly said to AIVAS next to her, “Can we link them to the Barrayarans?”

“Oddly enough, we can,” AIVAS said. “Aral Vorkosigan’s wife is a Betan woman called Cordelia Naismith. And the commander of the Dendarii is an Admiral Miles Naismith. Also Betan.”

Robinton brought up two more photos to add to his existing trio. A red-headed woman, Cordelia Naismith, and an odd-looking young man, Aral Vorkosigan’s heir, Miles Vorkosigan. He had a bit of a hunch, like Master Oldive, Menolly noticed.

Robinton said, “So Miles Vorkosigan is Miles Naismith, using his mother’s Bloodline?” Irritated, Robinton said, “So Barrayar is openly operating a mercenary fleet.”

“No, that’s what’s peculiar,” AIVAS said. “Not openly. Admiral Naismith claims to be a clone of Miles Vorkosigan. An attempt to attack the Vorkosigan family. But not the same individual as Miles Vorkosigan. Rather, an identical twin.”

“Forgive my bluntness,” Robinton said. “But that’s the _stupidest_ cover story I’ve ever heard.” He peered at the photo of Captain Illyan, as if blaming him for such stupidity.

AIVAS said, “It seems clones are surprisingly common, especially when it comes to powerful families who can afford them. Or have enemies that can afford them. On Jackson’s Whole, they transfer old brains into younger clone bodies, which gives individuals, if not immortality, a significantly longer lifespan.” AIVAS seemed somewhat fascinated, or as fascinated as Menolly had ever seen him. He added, “This type of genetic engineering entirely goes against Eridani ethics, mind you. But among galactics, there are recorded historical plots where clones have been created to try to infiltrate powerful houses. So yes, it seems to be accepted that Admiral Naismith is not the same individual as Miles Vorkosigan. The Vorkosigan bloodline is powerful enough on Barrayar to earn such unique enemies.”

Robinton frowned. “The woman we encountered, who injected me. She was definitely affiliated with Vorkosigan. Or,” and Robinton squinted, his eyes darting like he was reviewing his memories. “Naismith-who-was-also-Vorkosigan. So was the man, although he didn’t have the same allegiance. His was to ImpSec, not Vorkosigan. If this cover was true, a clone commander and not a cover for the scion of the Blood, I don’t think I would be so certain of this.”

“To be fair,” Menolly said. “If telepathy is not known among galactics—and _we_ didn’t know any of this would happen ourselves—they might not think themselves vulnerable to being uncovered in this fashion. And it seems to have worked out well enough to fool galactics.” She smiled. _“Piemur_ would go off and do something stupid like that, saying he wasn’t himself but a _clone_ of himself,” she offered. “Something so stupid it works.”

Robinton tilted his head back, and narrowed his eyes. _“Don’t_ give him ideas!”

_As if Robinton himself_ hadn’t recently indulged in hare-brained ideas of his own! And dragged them all along with. She grinned briefly, then made herself stop before she made a fool of herself, grinning too much.

Brekke said, “If you’re confident these are the same people…why don’t we try _talking_ to them, to see what they want?”

Now Robinton tucked his chin into his chest. “What—are you suggesting I actually _act_ like a Diplomat? _Talk_ to this foreign government sending agents to truth-drug me?”

“Demonstrate good Pernese manners,” Brekke said. “They’ve acted abysmally towards you. Show them how it _should_ be done.”

Menolly could see how the undercurrent beneath her advice was Robinton’s reluctance to tell Benden Weyr things.

“So, see if they have any shuttles at the docks, then just knock on the door? Hello, I’m here, no worries about that fast-penta incident, sorry about the firelizards!” Robinton rubbed his chin. “No, wait. If this son of a Lord is running about, pretending to be Holdless, Barrayar certainly won’t want the _Barrayaran embassy_ to be contacted. Or the other embassies. As the right and left hands clearly are not speaking to one another. But I am a Diplomat, representing Pern. Why would I _not_ go to their embassy, to make a complaint? The question is, would they play nicely with me, play the diplomacy game—or would that escalate things dangerously?”

Lytol said, “We may need to have our Diplomatic status expedited with the Betans. Please don’t go assuming diplomatic immunity before we have it, Harper.”

“Right, right,” Robinton mused. “So, I find a way to put pressure on the Betans, so I can put pressure on the Barrayarans, so I can put pressure on this little scion with his soldiers, and see what game he’s trying to play with us…or what his Master plans.”

“Or,” Brekke said. “You could just go talk to him. Send a comconsole message.”

“Well, _that’s_ not any fun,” Robinton pouted. “But more importantly, they attacked and drugged me. How invulnerable do they feel that they can just do that on the street? Do we risk meeting face-to-face again, without some sort of backing ensuring their good behavior?”

“I think you’re both right,” Lytol said. “We do need to find a way to protect ourselves from that sort of blatant disregard of our rights. We also cannot afford to be seen as _weak_. But, Harper—we’re not on Pern anymore. You have no idea the color or size of the dragon whose tail you’re pulling.”

“If the dragon didn’t want his tail tugged on…he shouldn’t have left it hanging out. But perhaps you are right, and it would help to tweak it with a smile…”

#

After the meeting, the rest of the crew were made aware of the potential effects of fast-penta. Robinton told them if anyone _volunteered_ to try fast-penta so they could determine if this effect was unique to Robinton—as AIVAS suspected it _wasn’t_ —they could tell AIVAS and a controlled test would be set up.

Unsurprisingly, nobody immediately volunteered to have their deepest secrets spill out of their mouths. Or have their heads fly open and other people’s thoughts fly in. It was one thing for firelizards and dragons to do it…quite another for a _person._

Later on, Menolly overheard Swift saying to Tuck, “…that does explain some things about him.”

“Mm-hmm,” Tuck said.

Shifts to watch the exterior cameras of the ship day in and day out were set up; Tuck, Swift, Piemur, and AIVAS took shifts (although Menolly suspected AIVAS was always watching.)

Brekke asked for, and got, more literature available on the make-up, design, and effects of fast-penta and similar drugs. She wanted, it seemed, to be more educated before anyone tested anything on anyone—even volunteers. She also asked for, and got, everything AIVAS knew about mentasynth and psychic abilities.

Menolly wondered if she was the first one to do so. Menolly didn’t remember much information about mentasynth going around; perhaps AIVAS had restricted it. Or perhaps dragons were too sacred a subject to dig into.

But finally everyone was, if not asleep, downstairs in their quarters. So Menolly went to the galley and made klah, and then tapped on the door of Robinton’s room.

“Come in,” she was told.

So she slipped in.

Robinton lay on his bed, one arm behind his head absently playing with a rogue whorl of hair on the back of his head that was just starting to form in his shorn locks, and the opposite knee was akimbo. In his free hand was a plastic flimsy. His boots lay kicked off across the floor, and the snaps of his black jumpsuit were undone quite a far way down his chest, as if he’d been in the middle of undressing before something else, like the flimsy in his hand, had captured his attention.

Zair was on the bed next to him, grooming a wingtip. AIVAS was nowhere to be seen. Or at least, his body wasn’t. Menolly was aware that regardless, AIVAS was ever-present wherever Robinton was.

Menolly expected Robinton to continue pursuing the thing he was reading because—well, that was Robinton. Always running his mind around something. So when he glanced up from his flimsy, caught her gaze, and held it, she felt an unexpected electrical shock go through her.

He was, quite deliberately, prioritizing her.

_Them_.

Before her weak fingers could fumble what she held, spilling klah all over, she found a large instrument case—empty, she checked—and appropriated it as a side-table, setting the pot of klah down before she spilled it.

When the klah was safe, Robinton’s long, warm hand alit gently on her forearm, and pulled her down to sit next to him, on the bed. The flimsy was discarded, half on Zair, and Zair amused himself with it as if it were a toy. Her eyes tracked the bronze’s silly antics until Robinton’s thumb began rubbing circles into her forearm, and drew her attention back to him with a vengeance.

She’d never really allowed herself to relax too much into his touch before. He _liked_ to touch—a hand on the shoulder or back. A hand clasping hers warmly. If she’d allowed herself to enjoy it a little too much—well, she’d been afraid of it stopping, forever. So she’d pretended to be oblivious to it, neither enjoying it overtly, nor rejecting it.

And she’d certainly never returned it, other than the occasional fleeting hug, or peck on the cheek. But she’d _wanted_ to. No matter how inappropriate it was for her to set her hands impudently on his body—she’d wanted to caress, too. And here he was, just sprawled out, an arm behind his head, a knee canted. Vulnerable.

She traced the edge of his open jumpsuit, that fabric line of vulnerability. “Did you get distracted?”

“Stuck, actually. Then distracted.”

“…do you need help?” She felt her cheeks redden from the audacity of _asking_ him if he wanted help disrobing.

“How badly do you want to distract me further?” he asked softly.

Her cheeks grew redder.

Charmingly, so did his. She hadn’t ever seen him blush before, and it was endearing.

Robinton said, “Or is that your intent? I’m only asking,” he added, “—in case you wanted to discuss anything.”

Menolly studied him, and realized that perhaps it was _him_ that wanted to talk, but he was ceding control to her. He’d indicated, more than once, that he wanted to cede control.

Which was indicative of his deep trust in her. It wasn’t only his political enemies that would count him a laughing-stock if they learned these proclivities. Most of his allies would look sideways at him too.

Funny how a truth-drug had resulted in this explosion of truths—just in a very different way than its crafters had intended. Not only Robinton openly admitting he cared for her—that he was _attracted_ to her in a way that couldn’t be brushed off as platonic—but the other way around, her spilling her own truths, even though she hadn’t been dosed with the drug herself.

She’d never expected to be able to _talk_ to him about some of the ideas she and Sebell had discussed. Nor imagined that he’d take to it so calmly. He was famous for his accepting nature, but somehow she still hadn’t quite expected him to accept the idea of polyamory, all evidence of his otherwise tolerant nature aside. Yet…

…here they were.

Taking his long hand into her own, she studied the lines and calluses there as if she might be able to read the future like wise-women claimed they could in palms. (Of course, given dragons could go _between_ whens, perhaps they could, much like Robinton could read minds without a dragon at his side. Or she could hear her firelizards—and him.) 

She couldn’t see anyone’s future though, and instead traced the lines and shapes with her thumbs. When she turned his hand over to look at the other side, a few dark hairs below the cuff of his jumpsuit were standing on end from her touch. Even a Master Harper couldn’t hide those little involuntary reactions. The blush, the tiny hairs standing on end. Like her own, they gave him away.

She wanted to study them. Him. More closely than she’d ever expected to.

But—perhaps discussion was best, first. “Earlier, you said you expect love to be difficult, so you make it so.”

“Mmph,” he said, some sort of nebulous agreement that he’d said this thing—but perhaps was embarrassed he’d said it after he’d had time to reflect.

Menolly eyed him. “How are you subconsciously plotting to make things difficult?”

He laughed softly. “So we can vanquish them head-on?”

“It seems like that might be the smart thing to do. I’m not,” and she took a breath to steady herself for another truth. “Interested in anything ephemeral. Anything over-and-done-with.” She looked at his hand, in hers, and was acutely aware that now she was _able_ to take it, like this, she didn’t want to let go.

Robinton laughed again. “Are you asking me to be your space-husband? Is this a sea-holder thing? Claiming another fellow once you dock at the next port?”

…a sea-holder tradition? She’d _thought_ the long discussions she and Sebell had had began with a different genesis, something half firelizard, and half Harper, given quite a few Harpers conducted themselves more like dragonriders in their partnerships, and Weyrsingers _existed_ because harpers Searched decided to continue down both paths, best they could.

But perhaps…perhaps her sea-holder upbringing had influenced her more than she’d thought. It wasn’t flaunted openly, but _yes_ , more than a few sailors kept multiple spouses and as long as it didn’t cause open drama (or, at least if it only contributed to mildly _entertaining_ drama), and children were appropriately cared for or fostered, it was tolerated.

Hardly anyone actually _went_ to a Holder and asked for him to intervene and declare one espousal or the other invalid. In fact, she couldn’t remember a single thing in the Charter forbidding or prohibiting multiple spouses. Even Fax had mostly only been looked at oddly because it was so blatantly political, his harem of ladies of the Blood, and the women were all terrified of him.

“I didn’t consider the influence of natal sea-holder traditions,” she said. “But now that you point it out, there was definitely at least one sailor at Half-Circle that somehow got his wife to foster his other children.”

Robinton said, “When I was courting my wife—“ and then he hesitated. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…” he trailed off. “I don’t mean to be rude.”

“If you can tolerate Sebell,” she said. “I think I shouldn’t have a problem with your Kasia.”

His brows drew together as he pondered this. Then he said slowly, “It’s more that I don’t intend to put you in competition with a dead woman. Silvina…was not fond of that. How does one compete against a memory, she asked me. She had a point, and I try to learn from my mistakes.”

Menolly decided to move, and climbed across his body so she could lay next to him. “Tell me about her. I only learned you’d once been married after Sebell found your espousal in the Records at Boll Hold.”

Robinton worked his arm around and pulled her into his side. “Ah. Was this a genuine coincidence while he was going about on some other task at Boll, or was he snooping?”

Fondly, she said, “I’m pretty sure it was snooping. I think he was trying to figure out if he had any sort of chance propositioning you.”

“What did he decide?”

“That you were a widower. And that your lack of partners was inconclusive. Everyone knows who Camo’s parents are, but you also sheltered Master Morshal by keeping him in the main Hall. Sebell hoped there was a secondary reason to that, beyond you protecting the man."

“…what do you mean by ‘sheltered’?” he said, frowning.

Menolly shrugged. “Master Domick once mentioned there was drama involving him turns ago. Something about his family trying to forcibly espouse him to some women, and a forced breakup with his lover.”

“Ah, that.” Pulling at his lip, Robinton pondered. “Yes, Morshall was very public about his affections as a young man. Stubbornly, righteously so. During a time where that would have gotten him hurt or killed in several holds. And he wasn’t suitable to assign to Benden Weyr, as the Weyrsinger there did not get along with him, and would have kicked up a fuss if I’d tried to assign him anyway. And F’lon backed his Weyrsinger up.” He sighed. “I wish he hadn’t turned it into a phobia about women, that wasn’t necessary at all.” Another pause. “I suppose I did shelter him. He was indiscreet and lacked all tact…but the punishment that would have brought upon him at a minor hold would have been far too extreme for the actual severity of his misjudgments.”

Morshall had once seemed unfair and somewhat terrifying to Menolly, given he’d been one of her initial judges of musical prowess. Knowing some of his story, he still seemed unfair, but also small and sad. Petty tyrants often assuaged their insecurities in cruel ways.

Fear often made people do unfortunate things.

Menolly fell quiet for a while, enjoying Robinton’s warmth and scent as she snuggled against his side. He smelled vaguely of Benden wine, Zair, and some other scent she couldn’t quite recognize but which she had begun to associate with AIVAS.

Speaking of that—”I expect Sebell would have come to a different conclusion about you if AIVAS in his current form was around back then.” Or if he’d had Robinton’s fast-penta’d mind waxing ardently on how wonderful F’lon had been. It was sort of funny in retrospect, how happily Robinton had gone on and on about F’lon in her head. She even had a _memory_ of what he looked like, despite never having met him.

“Well,” Robinton said. “I was led into AIVAS’s little test while I was too compromised to deduce its purpose.”

AIVAS said, “It was a Betan test, not one I devised. But if you’d known its purpose would you have refused?”

Robinton didn’t answer. Or if he did, he did so privately so Menolly could not hear it.

“What were you going to say about Kasia?” Menolly eventually asked.

Rolling his eyes up to search the ceiling as he searched his memory, he said, “Only that her first husband died at sea. And we spoke a little about sea-holder traditions. I did not want to offend anyone (especially her) by pursuit when he’d been gone only a few turns. When I broached it to Kasia, she looked at me as if I’d sprouted two heads, and said the sea-holds would swiftly depopulate themselves if nobody moved on. Death comes easily in that Craft, and women remarry, and I shouldn’t worry my head over it.”

Menolly smiled, imagining _anyone_ telling Robinton ‘not to worry his head’ over something, and expecting it to stick.

“She also said—later on, after we knew one another--that my sire’s fanatical obsession with my mother was perhaps not the best model to emulate. And that I shouldn’t put _her_ on a pedestal, just because my sire did that to my mother.”

“Petiron never said anything about his wife.”

“My mother died young, only in her fourth decade. Her rise as a Singer and his as a Composer coincided, and after she passed, he ceased composing, then exiled himself first to teaching, and then to Half-Circle when I became Masterharper a while later. He didn’t want anything—or anyone—to remind him of her.” A pause. “I suppose, as much as I loathe it, I am more like him than I wish. I didn’t speak of Kasia after she passed because the memory was too painful. And then I got into a habit of _never_ speaking of her. As if the topic were too sacred.” He sighed. “I put her on a pedestal, when she was no longer around to object. She was right, in the end.”

“I sometimes see my mother in myself,” Menolly said. “I hate it.”

A sudden mischievous smile appeared on the Harper’s face, and he squirmed around so she could see his dancing blue eyes. “If I’m your space-husband, does that mean I have a reason to go visit them? Perhaps there’s occasion now?”

A weird mixture of fear and exultation tingled through her. On one hand, she hardly wanted Robinton to waste his precious time on…on _them!_ But on the other hand—a small, petty part of her wanted to rub her success in their faces, and Robinton was an exceedingly competent spear-carrier.

But it’d be like roasting midges with a flamethrower. There was literally _nothing_ Robinton could do on a visit but make Half-Circle Seahold into an inexplicable enemy, and little of value would be gained. “You already snooped there with Elgion,” she said, sighing. “And you’d only get Sebell riled up, too. Also, my brother Alemi, who still talks to our parents, would be caught in between.” Alemi was the only sibling she still had contact with, and if powerful men like Sebell and Robinton popped up to cause chaos in their parents’ lives, he’d be blamed simply because Menolly herself was unavailable. “My parents aren’t important enough to sic a Masterharper _and_ a Masterdiplomat on them.”

Robinton rubbed his cheek on the top of her head. “I hope Sebell has continued to send Elgion packets of your songs. I took a certain satisfaction arranging their curriculum so all the children at your home hold were learning their lessons through _your_ songs.”

“Oh, you didn’t!” she said, thrilled even as she felt she _should_ feel guilty.

“Oh, I did,” he said smugly.

Her cheeks flared red, and she hid her face in his side. “I’m not worth _that_ much trouble,” she said into the fabric. It smelled like dye, or perhaps detergent.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling comfortingly through his chest. “If my challenge is that I expect love to be _hard_ , I think yours is that you expect not to be loved—or defended, or avenged—at all,” he said softly, and kissed the top of her head.

He was absolutely right, and she expected she hated it as much as _he_ did when _she_ was right.

But the topic had drifted, hadn’t it? “Anyway.”

“Anyway,” he said fondly.

She peered up his side at him. He was smiling down at her, as she smashed her nose into his ribs. She probably looked like an idiot doing that, but then he looked sort of silly from this perspective too, with his chin pulled into his chest so he could keep her in his sight. He had gained weight, which was good given how skeletally-thin he’d been for so long. Although, granted, _this_ perspective gave _everyone_ multiple chins. Reaching out, she put her hand on his stomach, and drummed a little tune with her fingers, and decided he still needed to eat more. “So you want to be my space-husband?”

“I will happily be your space-husband until you toss me aside for some devastatingly handsome Betan herm.”

“Oh, _that_ isn’t projection at all!” she teased, amused to have caught him in such a gaffe. Not that she could blame him for dropping her in favor of AIVAS. “What devastatingly handsome herm could it be? Hmm?”

“What?” He blinked, then looked vaguely embarrassed. “Oh. No, no. My, uh, _admiration_ of Betan herms came _before_ AIVAS adopted such a body.”

Interesting. She studied him, nose still squashed against his side. She didn’t know much about herms at all. What exactly did he like about them? The combination of masculine and feminine traits? “So you’d like it if I dressed up in tunics and trousers?” Her tone was teasing, but she imagined he’d hear that it wasn’t _all_ teasing. She wore her heart on her sleeve, after all. Everyone told her so. That could work for her, being bad at misdirection.

His cheeks seemed very red, although she was no longer sure it was a new blush and not one from earlier lingering. He said, “Er. I enjoy you for you, not because of what you wear.”

That was definitely the Masterdiplomat talking. She reflected that Lessa, as a Weyrwoman, was more prone to wearing trousers than skirts, even if she donned a skirt for special events. All goldriders—and greenriders like Mirrim—tended to wear the same things male riders did. Maybe there was more than his quasi-catastrophic crush on the Weyrwoman than the disaster-chemistry between them.

She pressed. “…so you _wouldn’t_ mind if I wore tunics and trousers?”

He hesitated, then said, “I do not think that is _my_ decision. Or that you need my permission.” Something was definitely going on in his mind, given how carefully he answered. 

Then his eyes flickered to the side, and Menolly was certain AIVAS was saying something privately to him. “Do you want to borrow my tunics?” he asked.

That hadn’t exactly been where she’d been going, but now that the suggestion came up—

Robinton continued, “I know Sebell’s stolen clothing from me, which…given your recent insight into him…I might interpret differently now.”

Menolly laughed. “How so? What did you think was happening?”

“I _thought_ he might be struggling with off-the-Gather-table sizes. They never fit people of our height quite right.”

She laughed again. “One of the few times he’s gotten truly mad at me is when I tried to retire some of ‘his’ tunics and shirts. They were old, and ratty, and too large in the shoulders.” Sebell had longer legs than Robinton, but Robinton had broader shoulders unless Sebell was training for wrestling matches—something he did less now as Masterharper. “Once I realized they’d once been yours, and sentimental, his agitation became clearer.” That said, until now she hadn’t considered that Sebell dressing her up in them was possibly less because he wanted her in a man’s tunic, and more because he wanted her in _Robinton’s_ tunic.

Suddenly, AIVAS said through the speakers, “Lord Lytol comes.”

Blushing red at her own thoughts, and at the unwanted intrusion, Menolly immediately set to buttoning up Robinton’s jumpsuit—the exact _opposite_ of what she wanted to do, _blast_ it! And he rose to answer the door while she busied herself with the klah, which was more tepid than hot at this point.

Robinton opened his door as Lytol had a hand up to knock, and as Lytol blinked at him, Robinton cheerfully diverted him out into the lounge for their chat.

When he returned, she’d drained half her mug of tepid klah, while sitting in the chair behind his desk.

Closing the door behind him, Robinton looked at her, then _laughed_ , a melodic, pleasant sound that resonated in his chest. “You look exceedingly peeved with Lytol.”

“Did he say anything useful?” she said, then bit her lip, because that _had_ sounded very peeved. Waspish.

“Somewhat, he’s fretting over some details of Betan land-rights he’s been reading. As Lord Diplomat, he intends to take his stewardship of any Betan lands that might eventually fall under his purview very seriously.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from Lytol,” she said. “I just wish—not right now.”

“Mm. Not right now,” he confirmed. “I need my beauty sleep, and have had a _very_ trying day.”

The words were completely innocent, and still managed to do funny things to her.

Robinton continued, “I sent him away, and AIVAS helpfully volunteered to ride herd on him, given he does not need sleep and will not get bored with Betan land-rights.”

AIVAS as a wingman. What a funny thing. “I owe you, AIVAS,” she said. Then she set her tepid mug of klah down, and rose to undo those pesky buttons on Robinton’s jumpsuit.

#

A peeved Menolly was a direct Menolly, and Robinton felt himself shiver as she undid his jumpsuit. The little movements of the fabric made the collar at the back of his neck twitch, which was oddly pleasurable against the implant. He wondered if his jump pilot wiring had possibly crossed some wires. Or had it simply been a very, very long time—including his convalescences, over two or three turns—since he’d touched or been touched by anyone in this manner?

And that didn’t even include how dear he considered Menolly. How much he loved her. And how a portion of that emotion did have sensual components that he’d strictly disciplined himself to suppress and ignore. The allure of touch alone would have been enough to erode his discipline, but that it was Menolly, his Menolly doing it…

He took her face in his hands, and kissed her. First on her forehead, brushing a wavy dark lock away, tucking it behind an ear. Then he moved his mouth near her lips, hovering in a moment of uncertainty. _Here_ was a line that couldn’t be uncrossed…

Delightful frustration crossed her face and she closed the distance by going on tiptoe, grabbing fistfuls of his jumpsuit to steady herself, or perhaps just forcibly pull him to her…

…and Robinton wished they weren’t docked and subject to the pull of gravity now, for his knees felt very peculiar and it was a rather long way down, and if he managed to fall and hit his head on something Menolly would undoubtedly blame herself and they’d probably never do this again…

But he let himself be pulled close, and the uncertain state of his knees passed, and her lips were soft and wet, and he lost himself in the sensation.

He realized after some wondrous moments of kissing, and nuzzling, and soft delighted laughs, that his hands had remained above her waist by sheer habit, and hers had…not.

“I do believe,” he said smiling into her ear. “You have your hands all over my posterior.”

Her hands squeezed him in response. “I would _never_ put my hands on you like that,” she blatantly lied. “How dare you.”

“Never-ever?” he said, grinning.

“Never-ever.” She grinned back.

He said in a false-petulant and querulous tone, “But _something’s_ grabbing my butt.”

“It must be your imagination.” She pulled him close, kissed his chin by mistake as he swayed with the motion, then landed one on his mouth.

“Imagination? I’ve had dreams, but never as detailed as _this,”_ he said.

Somehow, _that_ made her blush deeply, and her hands vanished. What exactly did she think he’d dreamed of? “Now I’m cold,” he whined.

“Are you a _chatterer?”_ Her laughing eyes assessed him, and made him wonder if there’d been other men who were silly with her in situations like this.

“Maybe.” (Was Sebell silly? He pushed that thought out of mind. Best consider that later.)

But he decided turn-about was fair play, and for the first time let his hands wander out of their usual bounds and down the graceful curves of her hips, and over her bottom. He _really_ appreciated how her jumpsuit fit her—it was that in-between state, not as concealing as all the layers of a dress, or of tunics, not as ordinary as blatant nudity. Just enough to conceal, just enough to reveal. He hummed a note of approval in her ear as he kissed it, and heard it echoed by Zair on the bed.

Echoed, too, by Menolly’s faire, as they came out of _between_ to watch, those eager voyeuristic lechers. All ten of them, eleven with Zair…twelve…thirteen—

Robinton decided to himself that he’d _definitely_ miscounted, all that fluttering and _betweening_ going on. Certainly they _hadn’t_ attracted the notice of _every single firelizard_ on the ship. Menolly simply had many firelizards, and they were going to watch, because what pleasured their mistress pleasured them.

(As Simanith had once watched him and F’lon.)

He found with a sudden strange self-realization that he’d somehow unconsciously missed that, the heady sensation that eyes were on him and he was being _watched_ (and appreciated for it, not judged) although he’d _never_ admit it out loud, or even admit that it had happened. Whether this exhibitionistic streak arose naturally from his nature and training as a Harper, or came from his early, fumbling, formative experiences with F’lon, or both, he was not sure.

But it seemed like every nerve was on fire under their whirling, red-hued gazes, and his jumpsuit constricted, and he had a wonderful, delightful woman in his arms who’d heard his stupid, deepest secret thoughts and _still_ loved him despite that horrible mess. Loved him, and wanted more than platonic love, as _absurd_ as it seemed from his perspective!

Menolly’s hands returned to his jumpsuit, undid the buttons one by one, from neck to navel, each movement disturbing his collar and sending a shiver of pleasure from there down his spine. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, and the sensation was so much _stronger_ with direct touch that he felt his muscles lock for a second as he fought to keep his balance.

“Headache?” Menolly said, pausing.

“No,” he said uncomfortably. “My implant—“

This led him to being sat down on his bed, while Menolly removed his boots and knelt behind him and pulled his collar back, examining his neck.

“It looks the same as before,” she said, and her breath tickled over it.

He shuddered reflexively, a reaction that was quasi-sexual.

“…is it supposed to leak?”

AIVAS said, “It produces a natural biofilm to protect itself from things like dust and sweat, and to prevent the organic flesh from being irritated when connected to a pilot’s chair.”

Menolly traced the outer edge of it with a finger, and his eyes closed and his head drooped forward, giving her better access. His neck had always been a bit sensitive—most people’s were—but this was definitely a new dimension he’d never before experienced.

She seemed to realize his reaction wasn’t pained, but the exact opposite, and traced a careful speculative finger around the other side of the implant.

He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and it was heavy. His heartbeat sped up, thudding powerfully in his chest, as it might with other intimate caresses.

For Menolly’s benefit, he said out loud, “AIVAS, is it supposed to feel like this?”

A pause, then AIVAS said, “It is within specifications.”

He felt like there was something he wasn’t being told. “I wouldn’t want to pilot like this.”

“No. The ship wouldn’t admit you, or would kick you out if you became sensitized during flight.”

Robinton wondered how much of a problem _that_ was for jump pilots. 

He knew he wanted Menolly to touch him there again. Or, perhaps, to press her lips against it, and those shivers down his spine again. “Then—why?”

Menolly began to pull away, but he reached behind for her hands, and pulled her towards him, and then she was a warm supportive presence against his back, her cheek resting against the short prickles of his hair, her arms over his shoulders and crossed over his chest.

Another pause, then AIVAS repeated, “It’s within specifications. However, I don’t have access to designer notes that might explain precisely why it is currently functioning as an erogenous zone, or why it can do such a thing when the ship would reject you if it was in such a state. I could make guesses, but they would only be guesses.”

Menolly said, “What are your guesses? If you want to know,” she added hastily to Robinton.

“I do,” Robinton said.

AIVAS seemed to hesitate again. Then he said, “The Eridani were holistic creators that pursued many fields of study. To them, isolating _this_ or _that_ part of a system that could be working together with other systems was a flawed approach, an over-simplification, because in the natural world, organic and inorganic work together. For example, organic processes create nonliving stone on living worlds, creating completely new minerals that do not exist on dead planets. And inorganic processes create the organic predecessor molecules that gave rise to life. This is the basis of the panspermia theory of life.

“So it was never man _or_ machine, human _or_ alien, human intelligence _or_ AI, but both, or all of those. This design philosophy is why you can eat certain substances to help develop the implant—the idea that you might take in raw materials some other way—either surgical, or through some other port like you’re a groundcar with a fuel tank instead of a man and a human being, was silly to them. Why not use the existing system? Integrate machine with man?

“And the only reason you can attach and detach from the pilot’s chair is because the size of the ship would hinder your freedoms and social and reproductive opportunities amongst other human beings if you were permanently attached to it. They would have preferred to unite pilots with their ships permanently. Ship _and_ man as one being. Much like I am united with you, Robinton, sharing the same body.

“In light of that philosophy, the implant being not only functional, but a source of ‘fun’ and something that has an interaction with your natural biological drives, is in line with their ethos, even if I can’t be certain that that was the intent. In the same way, a dragon’s existence and Impression to humans is functional as they were created to combat thread, but human minds are also pulled into mating flights in ways that might not have had to happen, although I admit I am not an expert at bioengineering with Pernese DNA, and am second-guessing Kitti Ping and her AI. But I believe she was likely tapping dragon sexual drives to strengthen human and dragon bonds and spread dragon-compatible human seed, and that that was a design choice not a constraint of the dragonet DNA she was modifying.”

Robinton blinked. “Kitti Ping was like you? I mean—me?”

“AIVAS mentioned this to me before,” Menolly said softly.

“I never spoke to another AI after the colony ships departed for Pern, but the ones bonded to bioengineers do not typically interact all that much with others, especially when there is no need. Astronavigators like myself are designed to be outward-focused, traveling from planet to planet. After a route is set, and there is time to fill in between calculations, we become educators. In contrast, bioengineers are inwardly focused, often on a single laboratory and the research and projects within. She was likely given her task to fight thread, and I mine. Given how quickly Kitti Ping was able to manufacture an entirely new creature using novel triple-stranded DNA, I don’t see how she could have done it without the support of an AI, even if I did not interact with one. Kitti Ping was very likely a genius, but even a genius is constrained by the limits of her body and computational resources.”

Menolly said, “He told me Wind Blossom probably didn’t have an AI, which is why we got whers, not more dragons.”

“Yes,” AIVAS said. “That Wind Blossom could create whers at all in such a short timeframe without a supporting AI is an example of _her_ genius.”

Menolly said, “Do you think a wher might be useful on a ship?”

Robinton cocked his head in surprise.

He felt the motion of Menolly shrugging.

Robinton said, “Would Wind Blossom have expected us to return to space? Or—“ he said slowly, “—try to relocate to another planet if the colonization effort failed due to thread? On three aging colony ships?”

“Those are very good questions I have not considered,” AIVAS said. “It is recorded that her effort was to make more dragons—but perhaps instead she tried to create some aid to find a new home if the dragons failed at their task…it is very Eridani to have a backup plan, and a second voyage across the stars would be perilous in aging ships already depleted of so many resources. Menolly, you thought of this because of the usage of whers in mines?”

She nodded against Robinton’s back. “Yes. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, ever since we talked.”

“I will explore the idea. Even if that was not Wind Blossom’s intent, perhaps whers might be useful on a ship.” Then he paused again. “I did not mean to distract you,” he said apologetically. “I thought this might happen if I gave an explanation—but you wanted some insight, Harper. To summarize: there is some tendency for jump pilots to get stuck in their heads, given there are not one but two minds in one body, thinking at each other. The sensitivity of the implant at times like this may be as simple as a way to bond pilots closer to their bodies and partners. But without having access to design notes, I do not know for certain what it’s meant for. Only that it’s operating as intended, as all parameters are nominal and within specifications.”

“Will I harm anything if I touch it?” Menolly asked.

“It is as vulnerable as any other part of the human body. Which is to say, you won’t hurt it unless you intend to. Nor will it hurt you; you could lick the implant and take no more harm than you would from a kiss.”

Robinton felt a blush warm his face—and neck, and parts of his chest—for it seemed almost like AIVAS was trying to instruct Menolly on _exactly_ what to do. Yes, he very much wanted her to kiss it.

_Least I could do, for having interrupted you,_ AIVAS said. _I would not like it if someone forced shoes on me._

…what? Robinton puzzled over _that_ non sequitur.

There was a, “Huh,” from behind Robinton, then soft lips brushed the back of his neck, and he shivered all the way down his spine, and made a small sound in his throat.

#

As interesting as AIVAS always was when he talked about Eridani intentions for jump pilots and dragonriders, Menolly was keenly, deeply _exasperated_ they’d been interrupted _twice_ now. So when AIVAS reassured her she would not harm Robinton if she explored this part of him, she lowered her lips to the gentle bumps of his spine, and kissed a trail up it to the implant, and then over the implant itself.

His head nodded forward again, and the fabric of his collar rose up to impede her. So she stripped him out of the upper half of his jumpsuit with impatient jerks of the fabric—he laughed, a low, melodious sound, and did his best to assist—and she stripped herself out of the upper half of hers, discarding her breast-band as she did so, and pressed close to him, knees bracketing his hips, chest pressed against his warm back, and explored the limned edges of the rectangular jump pilot contacts with her lips.

The implant was moist with a gloss, like a salve, and did not taste unpleasant. Strange gold designs under her tongue were tasteless, but she could smell a certain faint musk to him, a comforting masculine smell she’d always appreciated, along with the scent of bronze firelizard and that AIVAS-scent.

Robinton’s reaction to her mouth, and lips, and tongue was less subtle than her appreciation of him; his breath became heavy, his movements still, as if he were paying very close attention to what she was doing. She could see the vein in his neck move with every rapid heartbeat.

She wrapped her arms around his chest, and stroked the too-lean planes of his body. She could still count his ribs, and the lines of his hips were still too drastic, the concave of his belly too pronounced, but perhaps she could scout out Betan foods for him and tempt him with their variety under the guise of learning about Betan culture. Robinton was not overtly a gourmand with anything other than Benden wine, but passively he did tend to eat better when the food was good. But for now, she let her hands rove over warm skin and whorls of hair that were mostly dark now, except for a patch over his heart which was mostly silver. His nipples, when her thumbs found them, were small and hard, and his heart beat rapidly in his chest. She wanted to devour him.

He tolerated her teasing mouth on his neck and her teasing hands on her chest in intent stillness a while longer, his slow, heavy breathing the only clear clue that everything she was doing was driving him crazy, then he reached back behind him to tug at jumpsuits hanging from waists—hers, his, he seemed too discombobulated to care, only searching for skin to touch, and Menolly laughed and pulled away long enough to discard the rest of her jumpsuit, and the underwear beneath. Robinton looked over his shoulder at her, then grinned boyishly, and discarded his as well, and turned around to crawl onto the bed. He had color in his face from her ministrations.

Menolly tossed a few humming, horny firelizards aside when they didn’t make room for them fast enough, and Robinton laughed as they interrupted their humming to blurt piping insults at her and find new voyeur’s perches elsewhere. “Shoo!”

“What is this, a new sport? Tossing flits?”

“They were in my way!” she said, and reached for him with a smile. He let himself be pulled down on top of her, and she kissed his mouth thoroughly.

He kissed her back, and nuzzled her jaw, and nibbled at her ear, and then paused and said in that ear, “My dear, something’s grabbing my posterior again.” There was a slight note of theatrical whine in the words, mixed with humor.

“Is it firelizards? I can swat them off,” she said, and gave him a gentle swat on the butt.

His laugh was startled, and she felt smug for having surprised him. She put her hand back where it’d been, full of warm flesh.

“It’s still grabbing me,” he said, muffled into her neck.

“Well, it’s a perfect fit,” she said, and it was. One cheek to each hand, a perfect amount to squeeze. She liked it very much, and it was probably very good she’d had no idea how much she liked the fit of his behind in her hands before today, otherwise she would have been thrown out of the Hall for molesting the Masterharper.

(Not that she wasn’t molesting the current Masterharper on a regular basis to his great delight, but things like “espousal” made that sort of thing acceptable.)

“Maybe try again,” he muttered into her hair.

She gave him a gentle, half-hearted smack on the rump.

“Bah!” he said. “Do I have to misbehave first? Will you put your arm into it then?”

Menolly laughed, then he raised his face, and his eyes were full of high mischief. And yet she also saw he was completely serious.

Then he raised himself up on his elbows, and moved between her legs, and kissed her mouth, and then the hollow between her collarbones, and then he looked at her chest with evident pleasure and dropped little kisses along her breasts, especially targeting any freckles or marks or stray hairs he noticed. His hands slid up and down her legs, then a finger brushed over the hair in between, lightly at first, then once it’d oriented itself, a thumb swept around the nub, teasing her below as he teased her chest with his mouth, and she squirmed, aching and wet, and caressed him back.

And he was a _good_ , courteous lover, keen eyes taking note of her reactions, knowing her approval was not a sign to _change something_ but to _continue_ …

…and then he _stopped_. Just like that, like he was done, like they’d _finished_ , and sat back on his haunches (the state of him betraying his next light words) and said, “You know, I’m thirsty. Perhaps some wine for the occasion—?“

And she thought _Sebell_ was a trial to deal with! “There’s a _word_ for people like you!” She should have known better than to imagine his earlier look of mischief had been transient.

“Handsome?” he said, and waved his long hands gracefully at his naked body.

She opened her mouth.

“Well-endowed?” He looked down at himself. “Hm, average. Still, it’s what you _do_ with it that cou—“

She applied a pillow to his shoulder, knocking him off of his haunches onto his side, and he chortled and said, “That pillow is better as a weapon than as head support, I must say.”

“Are you hurt?” she asked in trepidation.

The look he gave her promised continued misbehavior until the beatings continued. Oh, he _meant_ to be a brat until he drew her anger on him!

So he really _was_ like this. It was new to her; most of her past lovers hadn’t. Menolly narrowed her eyes and experimentally whacked him again with the pillow, and he wrested it from her grasp—it was both odd and a little thrilling he was stronger than her despite being so thin—and clasped it to his chest like a shield, his blue eyes still twinkling and mischievous.

But his bare shank was unprotected, and one cheek of that eminently-grabbable behind was in range, so she made an exasperated sound, grabbed him by the waist, and swatted him again on the rump.

“Weak,” came a studiously-bored voice from behind the pillow he held.

“Are you _seriously_ judging me on the quality of your spanking?” she said in exasperation.

He stuck his tongue out at her, long and pink and undignified.

Which delighted her, but also could _not_ be tolerated or he’d be _unbearable._ Constantly provoking her until he got a rise. The Harper was apparently a bratty bronze somewhere underneath his skin. “Nuh-uh. No,” she said. “We’re doing this _my_ way.” And she rose and went to get a stiff little ribbon that’d she’d spotted yesterday near his trunk of clothing, some accoutrement that had fallen off or gotten loose or was intended to tie back hair that was normally much longer than it was now.

It was green, and she came back waggling it at him threateningly. “It’s the _green ribbon_ for you!” Or, at least it was threatening until the waggling made it flop over, wilted. She waggled it a few more floppy times, for comedic effect.

“What, uh,” Robinton said from behind his pillow. “What does that do?”

She sat on the edge of the bed, then grabbed the closest ankle and hauled it into her lap.

Robinton understood her purpose then, and jerked back his leg, but she’d been prepared for a fight (after all, Sebell had done this very thing to _her_ ), and got his calf under her armpit and her hand tightly clasped around his ankle—the hand she fingered her instruments with, so it was wiry and strong.

“No, no, no, no, no!” he said, laughter in his voice.

She stuck her own tongue out at him, then applied the little ribbon to his foot.

“Oh, Menolly, please.”

“You don’t get to beg me,” she said. “I won’t allow it, Master Grades-His-Own-Spankings.” And she applied the ribbon to his foot, bracing herself so he wouldn’t get away from his tickling prematurely.

Robinton was _much_ more lively under torture by green ribbon, yanking at his foot like a fish caught on a line. “No, no, no, no, no,” he said in a voice that started normal baritone, and went high up into his falsetto register.

“You wanted punishment, you’re getting punishment!”

He just laughed wildly, and then with a certain twist of his foot, finally got his ankle free.

She didn’t really care about the ankle, so she divested him of his pillow in retribution, tossing it across the room and accidentally knocking a firelizard silly—“Sorry!” she told the brown, who phlegmatically accepted he was now covered by a pillow—and wrestled Robinton’s long form onto his back, and pinned him by sitting on his stomach. (Compared to Sebell, Robinton was a _very_ poor wrestler.)

“You do _not_ get to ask me for spankings and then _dictate_ what form they come in,” she said.

“No?” he said, a smile playing around his mobile face.

“No,” she asserted. “You get to take what you get,” she scolded. She leaned back and folded her arms over her breasts, looking down her nose at him.

Her shift caused him to poke into her from behind, still manifestly interested despite their wrestling, tickling, and conversation.

“Or maybe I take what I can get,” she muttered to herself, and shifted her position backwards a few inches until she covered him.

When he was under her, warm and velvety and hard, she chanced a glance up at him through her hair, and the spark that had been somewhat hidden by silliness and playfulness and thoughtful diversions flared between them, and she could see beneath the gentleness, the flowery words, the mischievous, he really did _want_ her.

She rocked back and forth across him, _finally_ able to assuage some of the ache there, and his hands found her thighs, rubbing up and down them, and then her hips, and her breasts, before falling to encircle her waist, and slowly they found a rhythm that felt good, felt _marvelous_ , and he had lovely pink spots high in his cheeks, something she’d never seen before, and the length of him was very wet now, and the firelizards hummed with growing intensity.

She made a little involuntary sound when she slid across him in a certain way, and he responded with a deep, pleased, “Mmm,” and something about _that_ silken baritone voice making _that_ sound went all the way to her toes.

Then he said, in a husky, near-whisper. “What did you mean ‘You take what you can get?’”

Had he interpreted that silly turn of phrase in the worst way possible? “It means I want you,” she said, and reached down to take him with her fingers. Like other parts of him, he seemed perfectly proportioned for holding in her hands, like he’d been made to fit her. “So I’m going to take you.” She shifted position, and covered him, and then braced herself on his shoulders as he slid in, just the right tightness. “And you’re _not_ going to distract me with _spankings_ or _misbehavior_ or _Lytol_ —“

He laughed darkly at that last one, but it ended on a hitched little huff, and beneath her, his hips rocked. “Oh, Menolly.”

“No more distractions,” she admonished him in a whisper. “None.”

He shook his head, bit his lip, and, his breathing uneven, made another small delicious sound.

And as they rocked, slowly at first, he made another one.

Perhaps out of fear that the walls were thinner than they looked (despite Menolly knowing the entire ship was dampened against engine noise and everything else), they both made small, squashed or muffled noises to begin with.

But then as their motion sped up, and self-conscious self-awareness eroded as warmth and pleasure bloomed, the noises he made fed her ardor, and hers his, and mingled with the humming of the firelizards until, eventually, one after the other, they found release.

#

In the middle of the night, Robinton awoke with a start. He felt like he was forgetting something, something terribly important. A fascinating dream, perhaps.

And then he heard the soft whisper of breath next to him, where Menolly slumbered.

No dream, no dream at all. Although even if she had no longer been here, next to him, his aching muscles would have said enough.

He rolled over, and tucked her to his chest. Kissed her forehead. Sleepily, she moved into him, entwined her legs with his. He thought she’d returned to sleep then, but a few moments later she planted a kiss on his chin in the dark.

“You missed, my dear,” he murmured.

She kissed his throat in response. And his chest.

And he decided sore muscles weren’t going to get in his way of loving her all over again.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Someone_ had to say Miles' cover story is stupid...
> 
> Do you think Robinton and Simon could be frenemies?
> 
> Edit June 6, 2020: Replaced the previous chapter 8 with a new version. I may still rewrite it, but this one should be better than the old.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NEVER count all the firelizards.

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

Rubbing the back of his neck wasn’t erotic at _all_ in normal circumstances, Robinton was glad to find out, as he puttered around the galley making himself klah. He’d thought not—his collar didn’t bother him _now_ , after all, nor Zair’s tail—but it was still good to discover for certain. One’s neck just seemed strangely vulnerable to begin with. He didn’t want it to be an always-sensitive erotic zone wherever he went.

Sipping his hot mug of klah, Robinton carefully climbed one-handed down the ladder, and tapped on the edge of Tuck’s open door, where Tuck was peering into his comconsole, and Swift was sitting on his bed, peering over his shoulder, into the comconsole.

Tuck said, “Mornin’ Harper.”

Swift said, “Good morning, Master Robinton.” But he colored slightly, and didn’t look Robinton in the eye.

Robinton had _known_ it would get out when he’d woken up for the second time and discovered some of the firelizards in the cuddle-pile were neither his nor Menolly’s. Still, he suppressed a sigh, and braced himself for similar awkward reactions all day. “Good morning. Anything unusual overnight?” he said, deciding he’d rather draw out comments so he could deal with them, then have them pop out unexpectedly later.

Tuck, catching that phrase, said, “Nothing we’re _supposed_ to be paying attention to, no.”

Swift stared fixedly at the comconsole. “No, sir.”

“Good.” Robinton sipped at his klah. “So, I plan to tug on a few tails today. Wake some sleeping dragons, possibly. I’d like one of you to come with me, whichever you think is best, Tuck.”

“Not both?” Tuck said. “Considering what happened?”

“AIVAS will be with me. So I will have two people watching my back.”

“No offense to AIVAS,” Tuck said. “But he was there when you were attacked.”

“True, but all things considered…he’d just been born into that body. And he comported himself well, despite that. AIVAS generally doesn’t have to be shown things twice.”

Tuck opened his mouth, closed it.

“Something to say, Tuck?”

“Nothing you’ll like,” Tuck said.

“Mm,” Robinton said, sure that Tuck was correct. “Nonetheless, speak.” Best put it in the open.

“…if he was _born yesterday_ …why are you having sex with him?”

Robinton was afflicted by an immediate urge to deny it vehemently, followed fear that he’d simply out Menolly that way, and fear that he’d offend AIVAS if he vigorously denied him as being desirable.

_I admit, I hadn’t anticipated THAT misconception,_ AIVAS said. _Nor will you offend me if you tell the truth. Or even if you use me to shield Menolly._

_AIVAS,_ Robinton began.

_As you thought yourself, under fast-penta, how are bodies more intimate than this mental link we already have? That chassis is not me._ A pause. _Also, as a reminder, Menolly said herself she’s aware it’ll likely be better if you two are open about it from the start. That’s what she expects you to do. If you do something different, it will trip her up. Although I will back you either way._

Robinton sighed. Then he noticed Swift had a dubious look on his face, as if Tuck had zigged when Swift expected zagging. Leaning on the doorframe, Robinton took another sip of klah and said, “I must say, _that_ was an unexpected accusation. Perhaps I should leave you alone with Swift so he can correct you; clearly his firelizard is more adept at gossip than yours.”

“What?” Tuck said, and turned in his chair and looked at Swift.

Swift looked like he wanted to melt into the floor.

“Swift,” Tuck said. “Report.”

In the most reluctant of tones, the young man disclosed, “It wasn’t AIVAS. He was sewing in the lounge all night, we talked for a bit.”

Robinton hadn’t known that.

_You were asleep by then._

“Then who?”

Swift still looked like he wanted to melt into the floorboards, and Robinton took pity on him, because it really was _his_ issue, not Swift’s. “Menolly.”

Tuck swore. “You know I _report_ to that man?” Meaning Sebell. “ _Not_ you?”

Robinton thought for a moment, then said at his most bland, “Yes. I expect you to make your reports as detailed as you think he’ll desire.” Which, according to Menolly, would be _extremely detailed_.

Tuck didn’t pick up on that. “I can’t _not_ tell him!”

“I’m not asking you _not_ to.”

Down the hallway, the door to the cargo bay opened, and Menolly emerged, a musical instrument case in hand.

_I told her what was going on,_ AIVAS said.

Robinton looked at her over the rim of his klah, tried not to smile too broadly.

She rolled her eyes sky-high. Then she popped around Robinton in the doorway. “Hi, Tuck!” she said brightly.

Now Tuck looked like he wanted to join Swift, melting into the floorboards.

Menolly said, “Tell him all. Tell him everything!”

Tuck ran a hand through his jaw-length hair, then opened it beseechingly at her.

“The issue isn’t Sebell at all. He won’t care. I _promise_ you. You’re not going to be raked over any coals as my proxy.”

“But—“

“…do you think I don’t know my husband? _Promise_ you, no strips are coming out of your hide. Or Swift’s. Or anyone’s.”

“Sebell’s not the issue,” Robinton confirmed. “Every Lord, Master, and Dragonrider trying to poke their nose in our business is. Tell Sebell what you need to. And it’s nobody else’s concern.”

“Except the firelizards’, apparently,” Menolly muttered, and continued down the hallway with her instrument.

Robinton sighed. “I didn’t _dare_ count them,” he said, to nobody in particular. “I knew I wasn’t going to like the sum they added up to. I said to myself—I _know_ there should be eleven, here. But there’s going to be _more_ , if I count them. I _refuse_ to count them.” He took a sip of his klah.

Tuck’s harried expression changed, and after a long contemplation he said, “Shards, I don’t envy you _that_ , Harper.”

Which implied perhaps he envied other things—maybe not making a move on Menolly first?—but Robinton chose not to question small favors.

#

“Ormi Carradine,” Lytol said, “Is the woman you’ll need to talk to.” Lytol, not having a firelizard, was delightfully unaware of any scandal currently going on, and also had delightfully been able to research who they needed to speak to in regards to their diplomatic status. “She can be reached by comconsole—in theory.”

“In theory?”

“I attempted to reach out earlier. They essentially told me to wait until _they_ contact _us_.”

“Well, that won’t do,” Robinton said.

“No. But you’re more persuasive than I am. Perhaps you should call.”

AIVAS, surprisingly, appeared in the doorway. “You should, in Pernese clothing,” he said, meaning _not jumpsuits_. In his hand he had some elaborate cords, and he advanced, giving one to Robinton, and one to Lytol.

Lytol, who had been eyeing AIVAS uneasily, looked at it. “This is a Diplomat rank-knot. Did you have these stored away?”

Robinton looked at the one he’d been handed, which was formed in a way that indicated the wearer was the Masterdiplomat, and saw that Lytol’s indicated Lord Diplomat.

“No. I’ve been training these hands in fine manipulation, so I created them. They will not do under close scrutiny—I don’t have access to the type of material that is used on Pern—but on a comconsole, they should do.”

“Thank you, AIVAS,” Robinton said, surprisingly touched. Then he looked at Lytol and said, “You have an Apprentice.”

“What?”

“AIVAS. He made his vest, he made these rank-knots. Perhaps the two of you should chat.”

Lytol blinked, blinked again. “I imagine he has all patterns stored away in his databanks.”

“And all songs, too. But that is not the same thing as _playing_ a song with your own two hands, or making a tapestry with them.”

“I would not impose on Lord Lytol’s time,” AIVAS said. “I can learn on my own.”

“Ah,” Robinton said. “But weren’t you saying the other day, Lytol, that you’ll need a second pair of hands to decorate the bare walls of the embassy?”

“…you were _attacked_ right in front of it. Are we going to try to establish ourselves there regardless?”

“The individuals who attacked us are not locals. We’ll always be vulnerable to those who seek us out,” Robinton replied phlegmatically. “Perhaps we’ll establish it there, perhaps elsewhere.”

Lytol hedged his response, and said to AIVAS, “Yes, get back to me if we form a Beta Hold. We can discuss it then.”

It wasn’t as much as Robinton wanted, sounding more like Lytol simply wouldn’t turn down free labor, but he was hardly going to strong-arm both of them into it. 

But Robinton rose, for he was wearing a jumpsuit again, and needed to change if he were to appear properly Pernese.

#

Appearing properly Pernese with all pomp and circumstance did absolutely nothing. As with Lytol, the offices of Ormi Carradine brushed him off, without even letting him talk to the woman herself. Yes, they got the application, it’s under review, we’ll contact _you_.

In fact, he was so ineffective at getting them the Betan protection they desperately needed that he wondered if he were completely losing his touch.

While he was staring at the wall, struggling with the harsh sting of…not even _rejection_ but complete _irrelevance…_ Brekke appeared, and told him, quite seriously, that _she_ had decided to volunteer as a fast-penta test subject, and had put together a series of experiments.

He tried to slouch down comfortingly and listen as she laid out a sensible test plan, backed by galactic knowledge of fast-penta, and AIVAS’ knowledge of mentasynth, but he didn’t know how to broach the question of her _mental health_ to her, so he slouched further down, trying to _become_ content in a display of contentment, and his chair _would not cooperate—!_

AIVAS slipped in behind Brekke, who stopped speaking and stared, disconcerted by the androgynoid, and he had a tool in his hand, a wrench, and he knelt down and began to wrench at Robinton’s chair.

“What are you doing?” Robinton said to the red-brown head, mystified.

_Helping you relieve small irritations, so you don’t completely lose your temper with Brekke._

…what? He wasn’t…

But a moment later, Robinton’s chair could move. In fact, it had wheels, which engaged when the thing wasn’t bolted to the floor, so it moved smoothly and easily. Especially after AIVAS squirted the ancient wheels with grease he’d brought along.

Amazed, Robinton scooted around in little circles for a second, and then with a sound of triumph, found he was able to slouch _and_ prop his feet up on his desk—at the same time! “Look at that, I can use my chair as it was _meant_ to be used!”

“Just remember to stow it before we move again, otherwise it’ll become a dangerous projectile,” AIVAS said. He looked disapprovingly at the clutter that had already started to accumulate in Robinton’s quarters.

“Of course,” Robinton said.

_Ask her about your fears, I think I know enough about human psychology at this point that asking verbally will be better than her plunging into it mentally when she’d taken fast-penta._

“I’ll think about it,” Robinton replied.

AIVAS continued standing there, staring down at him.

“I will,” Robinton promised. _“You_ of all people _know_ I will.”

AIVAS stared down at him a moment longer, then turned and left.

His feet were still bare. But clean.

Brekke said, “Are you able to speak mentally to him?”

Robinton wriggled around in his seat, crossed his ankles on his desk, and his fingers across his belly. “Yes. My apologies, we try not to disconcert people with it.”

“He’s telepathic?”

“No, it’s a function of my implant.” Robinton fingered the back of his neck. “There’s a mechanical basis, which I’m sure he could explain. He can’t just read _anyone’s_ mind. Only mine.” _Can you?_

_No. Mentasynth merely allows me to get closer to the specific human my implant was given to. I do not get the telepathic benefits._

Brekke took this revelation in surprisingly good stride. Perhaps she had already suspected. “Will I be able to hear him then, once I’m dosed with fast-penta?”

AIVAS didn’t respond, and Robinton said, “I don’t know. He says he can’t quite hear Zair, not without me as a translator. Perhaps I will somehow act as an interpreter between you and him.” Then Robinton sighed. “Brekke, I believe your plans for testing this are well thought-out. Methodical. Which we absolutely need. But I have a question, deeply personal I’m afraid, but having an answer verbally might I think be better than the telepathic one.”

“Go on.”

“You are a former dragonrider. And have a powerful mentality. I don’t believe I’ve ever told you this, but when F’nor tried to go _between_ to the Red Star, your scream woke Menolly, halfway across the world. Were you aware of that?”

Brekke was soft in her reply. “…no, she’s never said anything. Nor you, before now.”

“I thought at the time it was due to all of Menolly’s firelizards, but in retrospect, I think it might have been the other way around— _Menolly_ heard you, and it agitated the firelizards. Or perhaps a bit of both. Anyway, fast-penta lowers inhibitions. And my concern is that I won’t be able to pull Menolly, or anyone, out of it again, if my own brain is in the same pickle. My gifts in this area are far inferior to yours, and Menolly could not get rid of _me_. She was forced to endure my presence in her head, babbling in response to any stray thought she had, until the drug wore off.” Was that really only yesterday? It felt like ages ago…

“I do not mean to do that.”

“Believe me, I did not _mean_ to do that to Menolly, either.”

She said, “Is that why…” she hesitated, clearly unsure if she should go there.

He waited.

“Lessa said you were sweet on her. Reverse-Searched her right out of the Weyr. But also that it’d never go anywhere.”

_Lessa_ had had an opinion on…? He had a sudden urge to strangle her, and her _opinions_ on anything. Luckily for her she was light-years away.

Brekke continued, “Did the fast-penta—“ Then she trailed off, unsure if to press him.

“Did the truth-drug force ignored truths to come out?” Robinton said drily. “Happy ones, in our case—but you can see why I’m concerned about other things coming out, in other situations with other people. I have the same concerns about Lytol as I do about you. And different but not-unrelated things about Tuck for that matter. He’s seen some bad things, from the days of Fax.” He sighed. “I just don’t want anyone to come to harm. Or under the influence of grief, terror, or misery.”

“We won’t know if that will come to pass unless we test.”

“I know. It’s the purpose of testing.”

“If AIVAS is invulnerable to telepathy, he could administer the counter, should anything go wrong.”

Robinton nodded. Then he said, “I will put my trust in you, Brekke. I meant no disrespect by my question. It’s more that I have tended to notice outbursts of clearly psychic things from dragonriders during times of great stress. Not…solely from you. From others. Sometimes frightening things. But perhaps that won’t be a factor during a controlled experiment.” He paused. “Who are you going to have question you?”

“I asked Menolly. Given she’s experienced it already. Then we will reverse it.”

He nodded again. If anyone on this ship might be remotely able to stand up to Brekke, it was likely Menolly. Robinton suspected her talents with telepathy might outstrip his; her seeming inability to bar him from her mind might have simply been her concern for him overwhelming the need to protect herself. “I intend to take AIVAS with me and go make a nuisance of myself amongst the Betans, so you will want to do any testing today before I leave.”

She nodded, and rose. For a second, she paused. “Menolly seems happy with you.” It was much better of a reception than it’s gotten from Swift and Tuck, and he felt grateful _someone_ saw the happiness, and not simply the scandal.

He rubbed at a small smile that appeared on his mouth against his will. _“Don’t_ encourage us—unless you _want_ two lovesick Harpers mooning over each other every waking moment of the day!”

Brekke smiled. “It might be entertaining.”

He just shook his head at her, and made a shooing gesture with his hand.

She went off.

#

Jancis and Piemur stopped talking _very_ quickly when Robinton appeared behind them and knocked on the open door of the utility room Jancis was using as her workspace.

“Master Robinton,” Jancis said, turning from her comconsole, which seemed to have AIVAS’ new body’s schematics up on it.

Piemur sat in front of his comconsole, numbers and figures from auctions hanging there. In another screen was a “live” video playing, of local Betan “news”. He gave Robinton a look that wasn’t theatrically bland or pointedly bland; it was the sort of bland that really should pass without notice. The bland of Piemur completely keeping his thoughts, positive and negative, hidden from his face.

Robinton eyed the schematics. “Please don’t tell me you share in Tuck’s misconceptions.”

Jancis, not expecting him to be blunt like that, froze. “No…” But she didn’t try to deny she knew what they’d been.

“Piemur,” Robinton said.

“Hm?”

“I want you to contact this herm,” and Robinton passed the comconsole calling card, “And first, see if they are all right, last I saw them they were stunned in the middle of the street, and second, see if they are willing to begin the acquisition of the property we looked at yesterday. Reassure them that we know that _none_ of that was their fault, and we don’t know why a mercenary company tried to jump us.”

Piemur said, “Do we know it _wasn’t_ their fault?”

“No, but if they’re someone with friends among those sorts of people, I would like to cultivate them. We need Betan contacts.”

The Journeyman took the card from Robinton.

Robinton didn’t leave, however. Piemur’s “live” feed had caught his eye, and he watched as a local unpopular politician was followed by angry young people with signs. Betans, he had learned, chose their Lords like a Crafthall did; by voting. Although the appointments that came from voting seemed much shorter term and more volatile than the Craftmasters of a Hall.

_“Do you plan to address their concerns?” a herm with a microphone asked the politician._

_“Clearly these young people feel very strongly about their issue,” the politician said patronizingly in a non-answer_.

Robinton could see an expression on that politician’s face that he’d seen very often on various Lords, Masters, and Dragonmen when he’d finally forced them to confront a situation, instead of ignoring it. And for a few minutes, he continued to watch the feed, as Piemur and Jancis cautiously waited for him to say something more.

Eventually he did. “Piemur.”

“Yes?”

“How would you like to make a nuisance of yourself?”

Piemur looked unusually disinclined to be a nuisance, and didn’t answer immediately.

But Robinton heard the faint sound of Menolly speaking, which gave him an idea. “MENOLLY?” he shouted through the ship. And waited.

Eventually Menolly appeared. “Hi.”

“Hello.” He gave her a mischievous smile. “What’s your _worst_ musical idea?”

“Domick’s sonatas, as rendered by barn animals.”

Robinton was unable to suppress a wild laugh at that memory. “One that _won’t_ get me buried in an unmarked grave.” But it was a delightful idea. He imagined trotting up to the Foreign Ministry with a huge speaker oinking, clucking, baaing the entire way, and grinned. Then he said, “Your _worst_ musical idea, as perceived by Betans, that won’t have Master Domick crossing light-years to murder us all in our sleep.”

“They seem _most_ unimpressed by bagpipes and accordions,” Menolly said.

“Bagpipes,” Robinton said musingly. “Did we even _bring_ those?”

“We’re not too impressed by them, either,” she said.

“Alas,” Robinton said. “I didn’t bring my emergency diplomatic set of bagpipes.”

Menolly began to laugh knowingly, triggered by some idea.

He regarded her fondly. “Share?”

“You’ve emptied at least _one_ skin of Benden wine by now, right?”

Oooo. He had!

“NO,” Piemur protested, jarred out of his studied neutrality when he understood where Menolly was going.

Robinton rubbed his hands together, then said to Menolly, “Oh, _yes_. I believe I have!”

“Should I get—“

“No, no,” Robinton said. “You have tests to do with Brekke. Finish those first, for we will be quite busy this afternoon. _I_ will construct the wine-pipes!”

#

More like _whinepipes_ , when all was done. It did not quite have the sheer volume he’d hoped it would have—but AIVAS, who had come to help Robinton construct the horrid thing, vanished for a moment, and returned with some electronic doodads.

“What’s this?”

“Microphones,” AIVAS said. “And transmitter. Just like a guitar can be made into an electric guitar, we can make these wine-pipes into electric wine-pipes, and boost the volume through a speaker."

Robinton cackled in anticipation, and they worked together to fit the pickups to the drones and chanter. Then they let it dry for about two hours, which AIVAS said was all that particular glue would need, given it was glue meant for far more punishing applications in jump ship repair and not simple hide glue meant for instrument-making.

Then, with the most terrible song in mind, a discordant old lament he’d retired in his very first year of being made Masterharper, Robinton tucked the bag under his arm, filled it with air, and let it rip.

“Arrgh!” Piemur said from across the hall, and the door to the utility room slammed closed.

Robinton played a few more bars, then said to AIVAS, _Ready?_

_Whenever you are._

_After the repeat—GO!_

AIVAS boosted the wine-pipes electronically through the ship, at full blast—layering the sound of Robinton’s single wine-pipe on top of itself, so it sounded like they didn’t have just one, but an army of them squealing and wailing.

“Harper, _no!”_ someone cried.

Firelizards, startled into flight, streamed shrieking through the halls and lounge, adding their own chaotic cacophony to the mix.

“AIVAS! Make it stop!”

“I can’t, only the Harper can,” AIVAS claimed.

Robinton merrily continued playing the horrid tune, improvising at times to make it even _worse_ , until people came upstairs and poked their heads into his office.

Menolly had her ears covered, and was laughing.

Lytol was giving him a look like he’d done something unmentionable on the floor.

Tuck came, stared at him a second, then did a jig of the damned, his face deadpan and soulless.

Then Robinton reached a stopping point, ceased squeezing the tortured sack, and said, “I suppose you’re all wondering why I’ve gathered you here today…”

#

Lytol was persuaded to send a message to a certain group of someones and their Admiral, asking them to meet Robinton at the Foreign Ministry building for a Diplomatic conversation at a particular time. There was no immediate reply; whether they would show or not was a cipher. But at least Robinton would be able to tell Brekke honestly that he’d _tried_ to talk to the ones who had attacked them.

Menolly, Swift, and Tuck were recruited to be drummers. Unlike bagpipes—or wine-pipes—they had _plenty_ of drums to choose from. Menolly chose the large, unwieldy one with a sonorous basso note, while Tuck and Swift, who might be called upon as bodyguards if Robinton’s plan to be a Great Bloody Nuisance worked, were given smaller ones on straps that were easy to drop in a pinch.

“PIEMUR!” Robinton bellowed, from approximately twenty feet away.

Reluctantly, the utility door opened. “Sir?”

“Come learn your drum line.”

“…is that an order?”

“Yes.”

Piemur was not thrilled at being a drummer boy again, but joined without further complaint.

This particular horrid lament didn’t come with a drum line that needed _four_ drummers, but between Menolly’s head and his own, they were able to devise a beat that would carry and be compelling from far away through walls, even if the squeal of the pipes was blocked or muted by distance. The idea was to draw people in for the beat, but drive them nuts with the lament.

Without boosting it through the ship this time, Robinton ran them through rehearsal enough times to get it right. Then he shooed them off to don their best Pernese finery.

AIVAS…was a bit of a problem, but eventually they figured out the width of his shoulders would fit in one of Tuck’s shirts, and there was enough loose fabric to allow for breasts. Lytol had a rich over-tunic that was designed to be worn loose, and one of Brekke’s skirts was of appropriate color to match the tunic, and completely avoided the question of what to do for pants for an androgynoid with a lower half that had hips, but also other things that did not fit so well in pants tailored to women.

Amazingly, AIVAS also produced somewhat counterfeit Diplomat rank-knots for the rest of them—Master knots for Menolly and Tuck, Journeyman for Piemur and Swift—and those were arranged convincingly on shoulders.

“What about you?” Robinton asked him.

“I have never been accepted as an Apprentice, or confirmed in higher ranks of a Craft. Nor am I a Holder or Dragonrider.”

It seemed ridiculous though, for a person who had knowledge across several domains that outstripped the most knowledgeable Crafter.

_I am content,_ AIVAS said. _You have larger concerns to attend to right now_.

Perhaps, but Robinton would revisit the issue later on.

Tugging at a fancy leather-worked firelizard rest on his left shoulder, opposite from his rank-knot as Masterdiplomat on the right, Robinton checked himself in the mirror a final time. He could use longer hair, but he’d be complaining about that for the next two turns, until it achieved its prior length. Other than that, he deemed himself fine, and picked up his wine-pipes.

AIVAS followed him out, carrying a portable speaker, and shortly Robinton and his array of drummers were on their way to loudly protest their invisibility in the eyes of low-level Betan bureaucrats.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but I suspect the one after is going to be unusually long, and have an actual Barrayaran point-of-view, so I'm putting this out now to adjust for that.
> 
> "Tortured Sack" would be a good name for a goth or metal bagpipe band, yes? Nice and edgy and oh-so-questionable.
> 
> In other news, I realized I liked the line, “Harper, no!” because it kind of sounds like someone named their puppy Harper, and now that puppy is doing something bad on the carpet, and you can’t get TOO mad because the puppy is cute and you love him, but you still have to clean up that steaming mess…


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miles wants a dragon.

**Chapter Ten**

A man in one uniform arrived at Beta Colony. And a man in a different uniform prepared to leave Beta Colony, a new contract burning a hole in his pocket.

But it was Sergeant Taura that met him, not Captain Quinn, as expected. Not that Miles didn’t want to see Taura, all eight feet of her and her wide, fanged smile. But he’d been looking forward to seeing Elli, too. “Where’s Captain Quinn?”

“Getting her face fixed,” Taura said.

Miles felt a moment of dismay—had Quinn finally had enough of the attention? He’d sort of thought she’d decided to take the good along with the bad—although he’d never _intended_ bad at all, it’d been a rather unintended side-effect of the facial reconstruction she’d had after her original one had been burnt off in his service.

Who could have guessed the downsides of being beautiful? In retrospect, he _should_ have known better—although in his defense, “beautiful” wasn’t exactly the sort of physical difference _he_ had to contend with...

Trying to process the dismay that perhaps ultimately Elli _hadn’t_ liked the gift he’d given her after trying it out for a good, long while, Miles said lightly, “What’s, uh, wrong with her face?”

“A pack of flying lizards tried to eat it on a mission. Captain Thorne has the details. And says she should keep the scar over her eye. For intimidation purposes.”

Oh. So it wasn’t about _that_ after all.

But…flying lizards?

Brimming with curiosity, Miles only barely managed to keep himself contained on their way to the shuttle, although once they were aboard and the pilot prepping for flight, he peppered her with questions.

Unfortunately, Taura really didn’t know anything more than that. Neither the unexpected mission on Beta Colony, nor the intelligence that had prompted it, had involved her.

He’d simply have to wait and talk to Thorne.

#

“Remember that trouble we had with that ship a few months back?” Bel Thorne said.

“The one with the corpse?” Miles asked.

“The one with the corpse,” Thorne confirmed. “Well, its twin sibling came out of that dead-end wormhole with its ass on fire, acting like its weapons were hot. Scared the crap out of everyone. We tried to intercept, but had foul luck with the Betan Navy popping out of the _other_ wormhole, and the ship ran right into their arms.” Bel shook its head. “Betan Navy boarded, had a little look-see—“ and it was clear to Miles that Bel was having regret it hadn’t been a part of that boarding party, "—and then let the ship go.” Frustration rose palpably from the herm. “Everyone knows Navy gets Survey’s rejects, but _damn_ if that didn’t make it obvious. They let it dock on Beta Colony and everything. So Captain Quinn led an expedition downside to question its pilot.”

“…being as we were unable to question the previous one,” Miles said, bopping a knuckle against his mouth pensively.

“Being as we were unable to question the other one. The _corpse_ ,” Bel confirmed, folding its fingers before it.

Ever since the rescue of ten thousand prisoners-of-war at Dagoola, the Dendarii Free Mercenaries had been tripping over furious Cetagandans left and right. 

The _corpse-ship_ , however, had definitely been one of the more _disturbing_ encounters. Deceptively fast and agile for its size and age, it’d played games of chicken with the Dendarii Fleet, dodging their weapons with ease, its tactical computer out-calculating everyone—only to ultimately be defeated by its own artificial gravity systems failing. 

Although they hadn’t realized _that_ until the ship abruptly powered down and they were able to board—only to find that the pilot a deformed sack of leaking flesh due to the effects of unmitigated gees.

The autopsy of the pilot revealed that the implants had literally caught fire, and roasted the neural tissue surrounding them. Due to the unique brainstem-centric design (entering the brain from the complete opposite side of most modern implants), nobody had been able to tell “Admiral Naismith” anything more. The system was too foreign. Also old, and lacking numerous modern improvements that kept pilots…if not sane, _saner._

The autopsy of the _ship_ had revealed the artificial gravity systems were not part of the original design, but a newer addition done by the lowest bidder. As with the implant, the ship design was too foreign and eccentric to fully pinpoint _why_ the addition had failed, although the evidence suggested buggy software. Modern ships had hardware fail-safes to pick up the slack when software failed. But since artificial gravity hadn’t been a part of this ship’s original design, and the modifications had been done by the lowest bidder, mechanical fail-safes had been completely omitted in favor of software ones. Those who did not read history were doomed to repeat it.

The most alarming thing, however, was the fact that the physician doing the autopsy _swore_ the pilot had been dead for at least a day before the gees from the crazy maneuvers had made their mark on the body. Somehow, the ship had been flying-by-wire with a dead pilot at the helm. 

It was a mystery that had never been resolved to Miles’ satisfaction. Even when they’d searched for other ships that might have been giving the ship remote commands, they’d come up with nothing. 

Although, granted, by the time Miles realized they _should_ be looking for the ship’s partner, it’d been much too late. The partner long gone, along with any evidence. Miles wasn’t _used_ to being slow on the uptake. It’d been _irritating_. 

But perhaps this new ship was the hitherto-unknown partner. Good on Quinn for taking initiative. He only wished it’s succeeded and hadn’t left their ass hanging in the wind. They hadn’t heard from the Betan authorities—yet—but it sure would be awkward if Admiral Naismith was no longer welcome on Beta Colony because his people tried to illegally fast-penta someone.

“So _this_ pilot, ah…was living, I take it?”

“Living it up,” Bel said. “First he made purchases from a pharmaceutical company. Then he bought a sex doll.” The herm shrugged. “Normal pilot behavior on leave. Very not-dead.”

Drugs and sex weren’t unusual when it came to pilots, especially on Beta Colony where both were perfectly legal in a wide array of varieties. In fact, drugs and sex were almost _too_ normal for pilots, who were notorious for being a little…odd.

Flying lizards were odd, though.

Miles sighed and said, “So, explain to me exactly where the ‘flying lizards’ come in. Sergeant Taura mentioned flying lizards.”

Thorne hesitated. “Perhaps I’ll let Captain Quinn explain that one to you. She swears some things happened that…I don’t quite believe.”

“I thought she was in surgery now?” Miles said, cocking his head.

“Oh, _that_ part I believe, left a whole ton of evidence on her face. It’s the rest of the details that are off. If I were a psychiatrist—“ the herm trailed off. “Well, I’m not, so you should see what they have to say about it.” The Dendarii had several on staff. “Then talk to Captain Quinn.”

Miles decided to talk to Quinn first. “Right. Anything else?”

Thorn shook its head. “The fleet’s on twenty-four hour standby.”

#

Quinn looked like she’d fallen face-first into a knife factory.

Briefly, Miles saw red—they’d done _this_ to _his_ Quinn? To her face? After everything she’d been through?—but when she looked up from the report she was reading on her wristcom with a self-conscious expression, he swallowed his rage so she wouldn’t misconstrue it as being towards her, and hurried over. 

Eyes flitting worriedly across wounds glued together and slathered in salve, especially the eye covered in a thick eyepatch, he said, “Taura mentioned you might have a wicked scar across that one, but now I’m not sure she told me the whole story…”

“Bel didn’t?”

“Bel told me _something_. But I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Fighting off the urge to touch it. Won’t be able to feel much anyway, they have me numbed up pretty good, and the medic threatened to put my hands in mittens if I don’t obey.”

They were in public, with medtechs walking by every so often, so he couldn’t—carefully!—kiss her, regardless of how much he wanted to. He forced himself to behave. “Will you keep the eye?”

“Probably,” she sighed, “But they said the lid might need reconstruction.” She hesitated. “…how bad does it look to you?”

“The cuts are clean,” Miles said. “You’ll have your choice of artistic scars.”

She sighed again, seeming to find comfort in the damage being _clean_ , at least. Clean cuts, Miles supposed, were better than one’s face being melted off.

Finding a medic’s stool and stuffing it into the clamps that would keep it in place if gravity failed, Miles sat next to her bedside. “All right. So tell me about the lizards. Captain Thorne implied there was something they weren’t telling me about them.”

Quinn scrunched up her nose, then stopped with a wince of dismay as the expression pulled on several wounds. “Bel’s a skeptic when it comes to psychic phenomena.”

Miles blinked.

“But the flying lizards were _teleporting_. I’m not making it up, or having hallucinations!”

Her tone was defensive enough that Miles suspected she’d either gotten into it with Thorne, or with someone else. Elena, perhaps. “I didn’t say you were,” he said mildly.

She was about to say something more when a medtech came into earshot, stocking a cupboard on the other side of the room. They both waited until the medtech was done, then Miles cleared his throat. “Will Captain Quinn be needing medical attention in the next hour?”

“No, Admiral.”

Miles jerked his head towards the door.

The medtech vamoosed, closing the door behind him, and Miles reinforced the order for privacy to debrief Quinn over his wristcom so the shift supervisor and their medtechs wouldn’t intrude.

Then he rose and carefully kissed her, before returning to his seat.

She grinned, then regretted that expression too, with a wince.

“So you think this is something to do with Terrence Cee?” Miles said.

“Not exactly. It’s more that I’m prone to believing my own two eyes—“ and she aborted a gesture to touch her well-taped and covered eye. “Especially since I know telepathy _does_ exist. Why not other psychic phenomena?”

Bel hadn’t been aware of the Terrence Cee mission, leaving its skepticism of Quinn’s claims of teleporting lizards understandable, and Miles had chosen not to brief anyone else when Quinn had returned empty-handed from her home station. As far as anyone’d known, Quinn had simply been taking long-overdue vacation time. If—when—telepaths became a problem, it wouldn’t be today or tomorrow but fifteen or twenty years from now. Simon Illyan knew about it, and Miles hadn’t seen fit to tell anyone else. Although if Quinn was right, he’d have to add _teleportation_ to his list of _real psychic phenomena_. And Illyan’s.

Wheels turned in his head, and he tried to link these teleporting, flying lizards to _anything_ related to Terrance Cee, but came up blank. As far as he’d been aware, that Cetagandan project had involved human genetic experimentation exclusively. Animals had never been mentioned, not even as a source of novel gene complexes, and Miles had a strong suspicion that if the ghem ladies, who manipulated animal and plant genomes, tried to merge animal with human, the haut would quickly discipline them.

However, that didn’t mean the flying, teleporting lizards weren’t a project of the ghem ladies all on their own, no crossover with humans intended or involved.

So Miles returned to the _reason_ Quinn had authorized a grab-and-penta. “Do you think it’s the partner of the corpse-ship?”

She made a frustrated gesture. “Possibly, but I don’t _know_. It’s the same model of ship, and it did some of the _same damn moves_ as the other one. If only I’d had armor on! Then those little fuckers couldn’t have done a _thing_ then. I could have _questioned_ him!”

Full armor, or even half-armor, never would have made it past the Betan authorities. More’s the pity.

“But you know what’s odd?” Quinn asked.

“Odder than teleporting lizards?”

“Well, maybe not _that_ odd. But they seemed… _provincial_.”

“How so?” The _dead_ pilot had been from Cetagandan commoner stock, with only faint traces of (known) ghem (or haut) bloodlines. Provincial perhaps by Cetagandan standards, but not galactic.

“No offense—but provincial like enlisted Barrayarans, with one foot stuck in the mud. Like they’d never _seen_ a modern city before. And how does someone like that get a working jump ship? Even if it’s an ancient one? It takes decades to pay even a used one off!”

True enough; several of their ships were not owned by the fleet, but by owner-operators contracted to the Dendarii Free Mercenaries. The contracts measured in decades for good reason.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Ancient or not, I wouldn’t mind adding one of those to my fleet, if it comes with a living pilot,” Miles said.

They’d autopsied the corpse-ship to figure out its combat secrets, but had only come away with the fly-by-wire mystery and the conclusion that _any_ ship could move fast if its pilot was already dead and gees did not matter. Ultimately, Miles had had his bean-counters sell the metal corpse to a scrapyard, so they’d get at least _some_ profit out of the entire hair raising mess. He’d also given the poor anonymous pilot the same type of burial that Dendarii without family or known burial plans got.

“Yeah, but you don’t _own_ a ship like that if you’re provincial. It’s not being contracted out. There’s no lien—that we know of yet. And its crew don’t _act_ like pirates. They don’t even act or look like Cetagandans!”

Miles’ wristcom chimed, and he glanced at it. “It’s Thorne,” he said to Quinn, and answered it. “Admiral Naismith here.”

“Admiral,” Bel said. “We just got a recorded message from that ship, _The Mastersinger Merelan_. Addressed to you.”

“How?” Quinn asked in dismay. “I thought I covered my tracks!”

Miles said, _“What,_ you didn’t go in wearing Dendarii greys, banging a drum, announcing Captain Quinn is here?”

Quinn stuck out her tongue, which apparently was not an expression which aggravated the wounds on her face, because she held it longer than Miles thought was warranted.

“Quinn’s asking how,” Miles said to Thorne with a grin.

“I don’t know,” Thorne said. “Do you want to watch it?”

“Yes, put it through.” Miles adjusted his wristcom so Quinn could observe too.

A dour man with extensive facial scarring—as if he’d been grazed by a plasma arc in the past and never bothered to get it corrected—and a jumping facial tic appeared.

His dead, brown eyes seemed to stare deeply into Miles’ soul.

“This the pilot?” Miles asked, pausing the message and suppressing a shudder.

Quinn shook her head vigorously. Then she winced as her wounds reminded her of their presence.

Well then. Miles unpaused the message.

Apparently, this man styled himself as “Lytol, Lord Diplomat of Pern”. While Quinn did searches for “Pern” on her own wristcom, coming up blank from her exasperated sounds, Miles listened to the man’s lilting tenor—which was not like any Cetagandan accent he’d ever heard—as “Admiral Naismith and an escort of his choosing” was invited by these Pernese to meet for “open discussion about their recent differences”. A time and a place was given; in front of the local Betan Foreign Ministry offices, but the _time—_

“They think I’m still on Beta,” Miles observed, and checked the hour. _If_ he took a shuttle back down now, he _might_ get there in time…

Which was _late_ by all reasonable standards, such as scoping out the area for an ambush.

“Miles,” Quinn said. “I doubt they’re happy with us.” She paused. “With _me.”_

“I thought I’d take Taura,” Miles said absently, replying the message in spurts, trying to milk it of anything and everything he could. The man’s _clothing_ was not at all Cetagandan either, although the braiding had a vague resemblance to Barrayaran styles—likely descended from the same Earth cultures or military traditions. It did seem to be handmade or bespoke. Of course, someone who was truly a Lord or a Diplomat among his people would naturally have such things…

Quinn began moving on her medical bed, throwing off the light blanket. “I can come. Taura’s good, but Taura and I together are _better._ I just need to wear a helmet. You should wear one too.”

A mental image appeared in Miles’ head, of the three of them popping up wearing fishbowls. “I’m not so sure wearing force-fishbowls over our heads to this meeting will be productive, if this man is a diplomat as he claims to be. In fact, it might be downright insulting.”

“The lizards could attack!”

“We’ll keep the fast-penta here,” he said reasonably. “And this is a public venue. If they attack us unprovoked, there’ll be witnesses. Which I’m sure they’re _also_ relying on.”

“They could involve the Betan authorities.”

“You’ve talked yourself out of worse. So have I,” he grinned. 

She sighed. “True.”

Then he said, “You might be able to get some sort of neck brace from the medtechs that’ll work as a shield over your head.” And he paused. “I won’t forbid you from coming, but I think I’ll be fine with Taura along. In fact, medically speaking, you probably should sit things out until those heal.”

Quinn wavered a moment, clearly torn between several thoughts. If he had to guess—a desire to possibly rectify her mistake (of letting her intended target get away), a desire to face down her fear of head-wounds, a desire to protect _him_ (combined with the knowledge that she’d be less effective with only one working eye and _probably_ should stay abed). 

But she made a decision. “I’m coming with.”

#

Bureaucracy, Robinton decided, was the same everywhere, persistent, infuriating, and ubiquitous. 

“I’m afraid, Mister Robinson, that you’ll need to make an appointment.” The man had the grace to look apologetic, but that’s all it was—grace, not substance.

“Fantastic,” Robinton said, graciously ignoring the mangling of his name and rank. “I’m free this afternoon. Fit me into Ormi Carradine’s schedule.”

“Oh, I’m not the one you need to make an appointment with—let me give you a comconsole address—”

A plastic card was handed to him. He recognized the address, from this morning. “I wasn’t able to get through.” He handed the card back—or tried to—and when it wasn’t taken he set it down on the polished stone counter. “Perhaps if you try?”

“I’m afraid I’m just reception, I have no power to set appointments.”

“A poor reception indeed,” Robinton said softly. “Why is this called the Foreign Ministry building, if it does not deal with foreign diplomats?”

“Er...well, you’re not actually in our database as a diplomat, and Pern doesn’t exist.”

“Well, that’s news to me,” Robinton said. “My entire world not existing. Should I have an existential crisis?”

_I was able to get through to a news outlet_ , AIVAS said. _Not their official newscasters, a ‘muckracker’ with a daily viewership of several million. Which, I judge, is exactly what we need right now._

_What’s a muckracker?_ Robinton asked.

_Think of the worst gossip in the Hall, or amongst the Lords. The one with a perpetually bad-take, the one that simply wants reactions and will say absolutely anything to get it._

_The type that lies as often as speaks the truth?_ Robinton considered this. Imagined what might happen if galactics showed up on _his_ world, and instead of dealing with _him_ (or, Sebell), went right to one of the worst sorts of gossips. Oh, _that’d_ get his attention all right, even if he’d been putting the same individuals off prior.

The man behind the desk said, “If it doesn’t show up in our comconsoles, it doesn’t exist. It’s silly, but true,” the man said with a little laugh that tried to draw on some mutual understanding of comconsoles that Robinton didn’t have. AIVAS was much more sensible.

_I try_ , AIVAS said, and Robinton sensed he was amused.

“I see,” Robinton said. “I can’t imagine giving up my mind to a computer that wasn’t at _least_ as smart as I am!” Or _smarter_ , he said to AIVAS. “But perhaps that’s a cultural difference between Betans and Pernese. Speaking of culture, do you like music?”

“Er...sure? Most people do.”

“There’s something going on in the park,” Robinton said. “You should attend.”

“I’m afraid I have to work.”

“What a _peculiar_ sense of duty you have,” Robinton murmured cryptically. “But very well. Have a good afternoon.”

Robinton suspected the reception clerk was about to have a very _bad_ afternoon--but far be it for him to save fools from themselves.

#

Taura heard it first. “Big party up ahead. Drums.”

Miles heard it shortly after, the sound of a rowdy and compelling beat, as if someone’d mixed up a military beat with the dance floor. They weren’t the only people stepping off of the transit line and turning towards what promised to be a rollicking, rocking event.

“Er…were _we_ invited to _this_ party?” Miles asked. “Or is it a coincidence?”

Quinn checked her wristcom, the medical force-sphere around her head glinting subtlety in the light, far less bizarre-looking that the version he’d imagined. “The noise is in that direction.”

Miles couldn’t imagine that dead-eyed man from the comconsole message—Lord Lytol—throwing a party you could hear from blocks away, and he was tempted for a moment to call things off, get back in orbit.

But then he might _never_ solve the mystery of that dead-but-flying pilot. Nor get to see one of the teleporting lizards himself. Chewing on his lip, he said, “Well, let’s go take a peek. Anything off, we bounce.”

“Or we could bounce them,” Taura suggested cheerfully.

“Let’s not do anything that’ll get us banned from Beta Colony just yet.”

Filtering into the stream of travelers, they found themselves rounding a corner, and suddenly the rowdy drums were raucously joined by…bagpipes? It was a song, of a sort, but a strange, wailing unsettling one that jarred you to your bones. Somehow, when barred by rock it hadn’t traveled well, but out in the open the effect was definitely one similar to a musical…

…weapon. A hideous, hideous sonic weapon.

_Paranoia?_ Or truth?

“Local PA system’s been hacked,” Quinn murmured to him, monitoring her wristcom as Taura scanned the crowd for threats. “Just like that mail buoy. Police are probably going to show up soon.”

Miles barely heard. Above them, a flock of flying lizards wheeled, gold and metallic and brown and green and blue. Somehow, Quinn had neglected to mention the rainbow of colors they came in. Then suddenly one of them, a gold, dropped and circled around his trio.

Quinn’s hand moved towards her hidden weapon, but Miles stopped her with a touch to the elbow. The lizard circling them was joined by a few others, until at least five circled them playfully before darting off further into the park. When they didn’t immediately follow, two golden lizards circled back, whirled around them again, and darted off into the park once more.

“They seem friendly,” Taura said.

“I think the lizards want us to follow,” Miles agreed.

“Don’t trust them,” Quinn warned. Still, she followed Miles readily enough as they trooped into the park.

Partway across, the screaming, wailing bagpipes stopped, and a lilting baritone voice said, “I suppose you’re all wondering who to thank for this _wonderful_ traditional Pernese lament. This performance today was brought to you by a joint effort between a gentleman called Gerald Mohan—whom I understand is a very _popular_ politician—“ the cultivated voice dripped with a mix of wry humor and knowing sarcasm, provoking a laugh from a few of the Betans who hadn’t fled the sonic assault, “And the Foreign Ministry’s very own Ormi Carradine.”

Finally, they got in sight of the speaker, a tall, gaunt man who’d taken ownership of an abstract stone sculpture—a long, flat stone block that floated—by climbing on top of it to use it as a stage.

_Seizing the high ground,_ Miles thought. “Is _that_ him?” he asked Quinn.

Quinn gave an affirmative jerk of her chin.

Miles thought back on the sparse, generically common-Cetagandan possessions of the dead pilot, and could not find any connection between that and the vivacious, very-much-alive man right here, dressed in a colorful tunic and trousers. Quinn was right; he seemed from a completely different culture.

…but a real one? Or a constructed one? The man was not _symmetrical_ enough to be Cetagandan, or at least not ghem or haut, but he certainly had artistic sensibilities. Theater training, too. The hack into the PA system was hardly needed; Miles could hear the man’s unamplified voice surprisingly well from across the park. It seemed to be affecting a mostly-Betan accent, but on certain words, the same lilt that Lord Lytol’s voice had contained became evident.

“Speaking of Ormi Carradine, I don’t expect any of you fine people know how I can get an audience with her? Anyone? No? Do you think another song might get her attention?” And with this sly inquiry, that invited listeners in on his mischief, the man squeezed the set of bagpipes stowed under his arm. It let out a feeble, rather obscene sound. 

Betans were not immune to laughing at fart-noises.

“I _admit_ I don’t understand everything about Betan culture just yet, the entire _purpose_ of trying to connect with your Foreign Ministry is so I could be _briefed_ in some way. Where I come from, Craftmasters generally _participate_ in the working of their Craft! But perhaps I’m being unfair. For all I know, she could be away for a big event. Perhaps she’s getting married today. Perhaps her _children_ are getting married today! Perhaps her grandmother is getting married today? No? Should I propose myself? I'm sure she’s a darling woman.”

Laughs. As far as Miles could tell, nobody knew what the hell this fellow was talking about, but he was doing so charmingly, so they paid attention.

“Do you think they’d like me to provide a wedding tune?” And for a moment, instead of being a screeching horror of sonic death, the bagpipes actually sounded pleasant and celebratory before ceasing. “Maybe I’ve been going about this all wrong!”

A squad of Betan police approached the floating slab, and for a moment, the tall man knelt down to listen to them.

Trying to fine him for an unscheduled performance without permit, Miles suspected. Perhaps vandalism to a public art installation. Definitely various computer crimes for the PA system hack.

The voice-amplification kicked in again, suddenly. “I am Robinton, Masterdiplomat of Pern.”

A pause, as the police gestured and said something.

Robinton spoke back, without amplification.

Keeping their cool, the police seemed to joke with him, but also clearly made _come down off of there_ gestures.

“Admiral,” Quinn murmured.

Two people approached. The first was a tall dark-haired woman with a rangy, lean build, and a flying lizard on each shoulder, one gold, and one an odd metallic green-brown shade. The other was a herm with amber eyes and red-brown hair.

…a herm? Yes, but not human. A sex doll, dressed in the same fashion as these people. The doll, unlike the woman, showed no signs of sweating in the Betan heat. It was also barefoot.

“Admiral Naismith?” the woman asked.

“Hello,” Miles said brightly. “You look _nothing_ like the man who invited us here.”

The woman laughed, a warm furry sound. “Lord Diplomat Lytol? No, I suppose I don’t. I’m Master Menolly, of the Harper Hall, and also the Diplomat’s Hall. Lord Lytol invited you to this event on behalf of Master Robinton,” and she gestured at the man speaking to the police currently. “The Masterdiplomat of Pern. Beside me is Aivas,” she said, gesturing to the sex bot.

Okay, perhaps _this_ was their jump pilot’s oddity. The people that _named_ their sex dolls were a pretty peculiar group.

The bot inclined their head in the slightest of bows.

Miles gestured to his left—“Sergeant Taura,” and to his right, “—Captain Quinn.”

Menolly looked curiously up at Taura, but her face sea-blue eyes held no judgement, then she looked at Quinn, her curiosity vanishing as she became much more reserved. “I see my faire of firelizards had their way with you.”

Quinn stared back.

“They are fanatically loyal to those that Impress them, and they are very honest when they feel a certain way.” The true emotions under that remark were thinly veiled, in itself its own sort of honesty. Then Master Menolly continued almost pensively, “I’ve been trying to figure out how to put it all to song.”

“Song?” Quinn said dubiously.

“Our First Contact with Beta Colony will be immortalized into a Teaching Ballad, which my husband, the Masterharper Sebell, will send out across the world. If _you_ had a say in how we portrayed this, Captain, what would you tell millions of people? How would _you_ explain why the Harper himself was attacked?”

Quinn’s small gesture kept Miles from leaping to her defense.

“Millions seems an exaggeration,” she said. The average space-station or minor planetary settlement didn’t go over a couple hundred thousand.

“No. The Harper Hall is responsible for the basic education of our entire planet. My Teaching Ballad will reach everyone alive, and go on to reach millions more turns and turns after we are both dead and gone.”

Quinn’s hand rose up and touched the patch over her eye. Undoubtedly feeling rather pirate-like. Neither Quinn, nor Miles, had any trouble with the Dendarii being infamous. The Cetagandans already had a bounty on them.

But the more they learned about the Pernese, the more hostilities seemed…misguided at best. If they were genuinely who they seemed to be.

And honey often caught you more than vinegar, which is why Miles had agreed that sharing— _limited_ —information might put this minor (…or not so minor?) snafu to rest. And get them the information _they’d_ been looking for to begin with. Miles cleared his throat slightly.

Prompted, Captain Quinn said, “A couple of months back, a ship the same type as yours—“

Miles said, “Ancient, obscure.”

“—attacked us repeatedly.”

“Trying to fulfill a Cetagandan bounty, we think,” Miles said.

“The only reason they didn’t succeed is because their artificial gravity gave out.”

“Lowest-bidder aftermarket modification,” Miles remarked.

Quinn glanced at him.

He grinned. He couldn’t help but help. Which, judging by the glint in her eye, _wasn’t_ a help.

“We thought that’s what killed the pilot, but then things got weird.”

Master Menolly glanced at the bot beside her, like it might be able to give an opinion. Miles wondered who was piloting it; the tall jump-pilot fellow was still talking to the police? One of the others? There was a middle-aged man, and two younger men—one tall, one short—who were watching the crowd as the Master Diplomat tried to charm the officers. Or perhaps the bot simply recorded visual and audio information for later analysis.

…it could also be just a sex bot too. Best not to assume, however.

Quinn continued. “When we boarded the ship, the pilot was dead. And had been for a couple of days. The ship flew itself, right at our warships.”

Miles said, “Like a moth immolating itself on a flame.”

Menolly said, “I see.” The woman was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, “So the ship was trying to kill itself, out of grief.”

 _What?_ Miles found himself taking a hard look at the bot again.

Glancing at the bot also, Menolly said, “Like a dragonrider whose dragon has died. They often suicide. It’s difficult for them to continue on, once their partner is gone.”

“Excuse me,” Quinn said. “Dragons?”

Taura also glanced at Menolly with interest in her amber eyes, before resuming her slow scan around the park.

The bot spoke, for the first time. It had a light tenor voice, and a Betan accent. “Dragons are a native Pernese species, named ‘dragon’ for its resemblance to the creature of Earth myth.”

Gesturing at the gold “firelizard” on her shoulder, Menolly said, “Like Beauty, but bigger. Aivas?”

“Yes, Master Menolly?”

“Do you think that’s what happened? Grief?”

The bot’s face was as serene as any bot’s, but it hesitated for a long while before replying. “It would be…irresponsible to call it that.”

She cocked her head.

The bot did not clarify. “Do you still have the body of the pilot, and the ship?” it asked Miles.

“Pardon me,” Miles said. Then he forged ahead with a rude but necessary question. “Are you a cyborg?”

Another long hesitation. “An interesting thought. Without flesh, I would not exist. Perhaps I am a cyborg. Do you have the pilot’s body? Or the ship?”

“The body was autopsied, then cremated. The ship was sold for scrap.”

“Did you discover anything during the autopsy?”

“Only that the pilot died because their jump set had fried. There were no experts in local space on the technology to learn anything further.” And the cost of importing a historical engineer too exorbitant to justify to Illyan. Back then, at least. _Now_ he was regretting giving the pilot a funeral instead of keeping him on ice indefinitely.

Aivas turned to the woman. “The ship, or others like it, could be a source of spare parts, so we don’t have to go to the trouble of sourcing replacements. Master Jancis would also be interested in examining the failed anti-gravity system, lest we fare the same when we upgrade our systems.” The bot—cyborg?—looked at Miles again. “The pilot’s body was damaged by the g-forces exerted on it?”

Quinn was the one who replied. “An understatement, but yes.”

“Then the innate anti-gravity systems failed as well. That model has primitive anti-gravity systems, not as sophisticated as the true anti-gravity technology Beta Colony has engineered. It counteracts the gees generated by maneuvers to keep it within human tolerances, but it can only counteract, not generate or maintain a specific state throughout the ship.” Aivas was silent for a moment.

“So this was one of your people?” Miles asked.

“No,” Menolly and Aivas said at the same time.

Aivas inclined its head to Menolly, so she could explain.

Menolly said, “Pern’s colonists mostly came from Earth stock, with some lesser additions from Tau Ceti, Alpha Centauri, and Eridani.”

Well _that_ was interesting. Menolly looked like she fully believed what she’d just said, and the cyborg didn’t contradict her.

“The Alpha Centauri colonization effort failed,” Miles said. “Only Beta Colony was established. Nobody ever found a trace of the Alpha colony effort.”

“Huh,” Menolly said. “Well, our Records could be wrong. It’s amazing we know as much as we do, after so long.”

Aivas spoke. “It’s possible the dead pilot was descended from Eridani stock, just as we were. My research shows Eridani was later conquered by Cetaganda, centuries after Pern was colonized. I assume any individuals who survived that attack were absorbed into the Cetagandan empire. It’s also probable the ship has been resold many times in the intervening centuries since those ships was last produced.”

“But you suggested a _motive_ for why that ship might have attacked our fleet,” Miles said. How did a _ship_ grieve? Yet, that crazy game of chicken was not unlike the behavior of someone who’d had everything taken from them. It made _sense_ in a way his other theories hadn’t.

“No, Aivas is right, it would be irresponsible to say that that happened for certain,” Menolly said. “I’m projecting dragonrider customs on ships in my own effort to understand, and they’re two different things entirely.”

Aivas nodded silently.

But _were_ they? The ship had demonstrably flown-by-wire, with its pilot dead. The woman was—even if in error—ascribing it human motivations, grief. That suggested she believed the _ship_ had a level of human intelligence. Or at least that someone other than the pilot was present and could fly the ship. It wouldn’t be the first time a ship had one pilot for the wormholes, and another for in-system sub-light movement. The cockpit itself had had _all_ its chairs wired for pilots. Perhaps the partner to the fly-by-wire hadn’t been _outside_ the ship at all.

And here “Aivas” was, a sex-bot by all appearances. But a _ship_ wouldn’t work as a body once downside, would it? Just a _little_ too big to take sight-seeing through the city! Also, Aivas had considered the idea that it was a cyborg as if that were a completely new concept…

But Cetagandans weren’t the only ones who genetically engineered fanatic loyalty into their servants. Or led them into thinking they were less than human, as Taura had been. It would be very easy to feel inhuman if you did not even have a body of your own, if your body might be something you could put on or take off like clothing.

Miles said, a sinking feeling coming over him, “Should we have been looking for a co-pilot, a brain in a box, before we scrapped the ship?”

Menolly’s eyes widened, and she looked horrified. The whirling, faceted eyes of the golden firelizard on her arm changed from greenish-yellow to yellow-orange.

Aivas’ expression did not change. It looked as neutrally pleasant as ever. “How long ago did this happen?”

“About six months, galactic.”

“I expect if there’d been a ‘brain in a box’ as you put it, it would have expired by now. Grief might not be the right word. But a conclusion that it should self-terminate, or simply not rouse itself to action that might save itself, could have come about through other logical processes.”

_Damn it!_ Miles didn’t want to contemplate the idea that he’d _killed_ someone out of _sheer_ _ignorance_. Even if they’d _wanted_ to die, maybe he could have talked them out of it!

Bad enough to be a brain in a box. Drowning in a nutrient bag slowly poisoning itself with cellular waste, like uterine replicator neglected far past its opening date…he wouldn’t wish that on enemies _far_ worse than the mad ship. That he hadn’t even _known_ to search and the existence of a co-pilot had been cleverly hidden and probably shielded to prevent discovery by casual scan didn’t matter. His _ignorance_ had led someone to their death, and that was appalling.

Quinn touched his arm. “We couldn’t have known.”

That wasn’t comforting, and he expected it didn’t comfort her, either.

Aivas said, “Before the ship attacked you, you had no earlier interactions with it?”

Quinn said, “None we were aware of.”

Menolly said to Aivas, “And the pilot was _dead_ …so it did this on its own? Isn’t that unusual?”

“Yes,” the sex-bot said. “Although it might have had a secondary objective, that was strong enough that it survived the pilot’s death. Or, multiple objectives—did it try to hack any of your systems?”

“Yes, but our firewalls kept it out,” Quinn said.

Menolly looked slightly dubious, and Miles fingered his com and punished in immediate orders to have his security teams sweep all the ships and shuttles in the fleet, deeper than the usual post-battle scans for digital stowaways.

“Ah. Of course. I expect military firewalls would be more challenging,” Aivas said.

Beyond Menolly and AIVAS, a group of figures from the Foreign Ministry detached themselves from the building across the street, and approached the tall man playing minstrel in the park. It was at this point the pilot named Robinton decided to vacate his impromptu stage, greet these personages with a gracious bow. Behind him, the police moved away, as a squad of park maintenance personnel moved in to make sure the crazy foreigner hadn’t done permanent damage to the sculpture.

“I wonder if that block he was standing on is historical,” Miles mused as his mind processed in the background.

Menolly turned to look, and a sudden smile bloomed on her face, the sort of smile that made a spare, lean visage suddenly warm and shining. “If it wasn’t already, now it is. The Harper stood on it.”

“I suppose you’ll write a song about that, too,” Quinn said in a neutral tone.

The woman turned to look at Quinn, catching the hidden barb despite the culture differences, and raised her chin slightly for a moment, before laughing. “Perhaps I will. What were you saying before about ‘popular music on Beta’, Aivas? I suppose I could start with that genre as any.”

Miles watched the scene near the rock. There was some talking, gesturing, a sad _pthhbbttt_ sound from the squeeze-sack under the tall man’s arm, and finally handshakes, then the man and his three minions with drums broke away from the crowd, heading towards Miles, while the other people promptly flowed back towards the Foreign Ministry building.

When he was close enough that he wouldn’t need to shout, the man said, “Ah! Admiral Naismith. I appreciate you taking the time to come out to this little event. I must say, you’re much more responsive than the Betan government.”

“A clear chain of command makes that easier,” Miles said. “Bureaucracy is rarely efficient.”

“Very true, very true.” With a little bow that ended in a flourish, Robinton announced, “I am Master Robinton, Masterdiplomat of the Diplomat Crafthall of Pern, and also a Master of the Harper Hall. On my shoulder is Zair, my bronze firelizard. Accompanying me is Master Tuck of the Harper Hall,” he gestured to the older man, “—Journeyman Swift—“ the taller of the younger men, “—and Journeyman Piemur—“ the shortest man, with a gold firelizard on his shoulder. “You’ve already met my second, Master Menolly of the Diplomat and Harper Halls, as well as AIVAS,” he said, gesturing at the woman and the sex-bot.

Then he glanced at Quinn and Taura, settled on Taura, with the typical perplexity of a tall man who is unused to looking up at women, although much more polite. “My lady, pardon my ignorance—what world are you from?”

“Jackson’s Whole,” Taura said, in her pleasant baritone.

Master Robinton glanced at his youngest companion, the one with curly black hair, pale skin, and blue eyes, and the young man gave a barely perceptible shrug of his shoulders and shake of the head. 

Turning back to Taura, Robinton said, “Do you sing?”

“No.”

“That’s a shame. You sound like a contralto profundo, if my ear’s not mistaken. We had one on Pern, in the Sixth Pass according to our Records.” He gave a sly smile to Aivas. “Too early _and_ too late for the Ancients to capture such a beautiful sound, unfortunately.”

“So you have theater training, Master Robinton?” Miles asked, drawing the man’s attention so Taura could return to scanning the area.

“A tiny bit, yes,” Robinton said. He seemed to remember he had something stowed under one arm, and abruptly squeezed the bagpipes, and played a quick little melody on the chanter, more pleasant than the earlier screeching. “Musical training, too.” Then abruptly there was a soft _pop!_ and the chanter completely detached from the sack, and the scent of aviation glue and wine filled the air.

Miles wondered how high exactly this fellow was. He had to be at least a little, breathing in those fumes…

“Ah, I knew I was at the limit of my abilities with this creation. Thankfully, it’s served its purpose in luring the Betans to me. Journeyman Piemur, hold this,” and he deposited the deflated smelly sack into the young man’s arms. “Now, Admiral, you and I have the opposite problem. I was going about my business, coming over to introduce myself to our new next-door neighbors the Betans, and I’d barely exited that wormhole before we were being jammed and targeted. Then your Captain Quinn here and some Barrayarans tried to snatch me off the street for questioning.”

“Barrayarans?” Miles said, and glanced at Quinn. He let a faint note of irritation enter his voice. “Did some sneak in through our background checks?”

She frowned, and forwarded him on his com the team she’d taken with her.

There were no individuals who claimed _public_ Barrayaran citizenship—but one man Miles was fairly certain was an ImpSec observer.

Miles said, “The Barrayarans often try to get men into our ranks, sneaky bastards. We root ‘em out, then they try again. _Barrayarans_ , are you sure? Where did you come by this information?” he asked, looking up from his com.

Master Robinton had the faintest of smiles on his lips, and a disarmingly gentle expression. “I might be willing to share that information, but at this moment, I’m not entirely sure where we stand with one another. Your Captain Quinn bears the marks of our firelizards, as surely as a banished, Holdless man bears ink on his forehead, and I can’t say my day wasn’t a little disrupted by the effects of that _illegal_ fast-penta administration. Given the Betan Foreign Ministry has just recognized my Diplomatic status as a representative of Pern, backdated to the day we entered this star system, what incentive do I have to share information with you, about stray Barrayarans, instead of with the local authorities about these incidents?”

Quinn, consulting her com, flashed something at Miles. This man was only a Class III Diplomat, classified under _genetic enclave/ethnic minority._ The Betan authorities would respond if summoned—but it wouldn’t be nearly the response a Diplomat from a major government would get.

“Masterdiplomat,” Menolly cut in.

“Yes?”

“Half a turn ago, they were attacked by a ship, of the same make as our own.”

“Oh?”

Captain Quinn took the cue and repeated what they’d already told the others, and Master Robinton listened attentively, his face genial, but his eyes thoughtful.

When she was done, Miles said, “Our hastiness aside—we’ve been dealing with a damnable amount of Cetagandan hostility recently, which leads to twitchy fingers—but it does seem like we have a common interest in that ghost ship. If you’re willing to forgive the insult to your personage, wipe the slate clean…perhaps we can share the coordinates of where we junked the ship, and explore it together.”

Robinton regarded him, his face unreadable. Then he said, “How do I know we can trust you? Mercenaries are, after all, mercenary.”

Miles inclined his head, then quirked a grin. “We may be mercenaries, but that doesn’t mean we’re dishonorable. We’ve never broken a contract that wasn’t broken by the other party first, and we’d be happy to provide references from other small planetary governments of similar size as your own.” 

Whether a Diplomat with only Class III status on Beta Colony would get the time of day much less verification from those other governments (Beta being more generous in its recognition of foreign Diplomats than most other locales) was up in the air, but perhaps the Pernese would force something through again.

Miles added, “And we never accept simultaneous contracts which would put us into conflict with existing clients. Perhaps you’d find that hiring us first, before someone else does, is a worthwhile investment.”

The silence stretched on long as the Masterdiplomat weighed his wounded pride and dignity against what Miles had suggested. Miles wouldn’t be completely surprised if the man turned him down; it would require him to be much more forgiving than the average person, or as deeply interested in the ship as Miles was.

Then suddenly Master Robinton said, “Very well. We can wipe the slate clean, and let these little incidents go—for the coordinates of that ship. My Master Smith—Engineer—has a keen interest in spare parts, the make and model of our ship being out of production for so long. As for hiring you and your men—perhaps this is not the best venue to discuss such things. I, for one, would very much like a chair, and some wine. Shall I have one of my people contact you to set up another meeting?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

The bronze creature on Robinton’s shoulder stirred, and Robinton caressed its head absently. Then he frowned at it sharply. “Menolly, do you—?”

—and thrilling, strange sound, like a trumpet or bugle, as if issued through the throat of a beast, erupted out of the air above them, drawing Taura’s aim, and Miles’ restraining touch on her elbow.

As Miles watched in disbelief, a huge white creature that according to physics shouldn’t even be able to _fly_ rejected his expectations and _flew_ anyway through the air and back-winged to land in a clear area of the park. Stray wrappers that hadn’t made it into a garbage chute swirled in little eddies around its feet.

Then _Gregor_ dismounted from its back.

Well, it wasn’t _really_ Gregor—the man was a little bit shorter, a little bit wider in the shoulders, and when he raised a hand and called, “Master Robinton!” had the characteristic lilt of the Pernese, not the warm gutturals of Barrayar. (Also? Gregor didn’t have a _dragon_. Miles was _pretty_ sure about that one.)

But the resemblance was close enough when at a distance that if this man had been Barrayaran, and the background and psych checks clean, he would have been scooped into the Emperor’s service as a body look-alike immediately.

“Ah, and there’s my next appointment,” Master Robinton said cheerfully, as if flying creatures bigger than horses just popped out of nowhere in the sky every day for him.

Perhaps they did.

Everyone _else_ in the park, however, stared, yelled, or immediately pointed cameras and portable coms at the white dragon in the desperate chance that the evidence _might_ convince their friends and loved ones that they _hadn’t_ been the victims of some mass hallucination.

Robinton’s minions collectively looked strained, in that way that Miles had seen ImpSec or Armsmen look strained in a chaotic situation surrounding a target they were supposed to protect. Journeyman Piemur handed his instruments to Master Menolly and stayed by Robinton’s side while the other two immediately fanned out to keep people at a distance from the dragon and the rider dismounting from its back.

Robinton said, “Menolly—please answer any additional questions the Admiral may have. AIVAS, with me.” He raised his voice. “Lord Jaxom! How glad I am to see you! You’re right on time,” and he strode towards the pair, before stopping to bow deeply to the dragon, with rather more respect and less flourish than his earlier bows. The dragon, amazingly, nodded back, its eyes whirling a faceted blue-green.

Then Master Robinton shook the not-Gregor’s hand, and they said a word in each other’s ears, then strode together back to the beast, along with Aivas, and climbed on its back.

And the huge white creature leapt into the air, and _vanished_.

Just like those firelizards.

…how did you make something the size of a groundcar simply _vanish_?

Master Tuck and Journeymen Piemur and Swift returned to flank Menolly.

When nobody could manage to make much of a sound, Master Menolly said, unprompted, “That was Lord Jaxom of Ruatha Hold, rider of the white dragon Ruth. He’s a dragonrider. And a Lord.”

“Of course,” Miles said nonchalantly, his mind whirling with a sudden fantasy of arriving back on Barrayar with a gift of a dragon for Gregor.

Gregor most assuredly wouldn’t want it, but maybe if he explained its capabilities _Miles_ could keep it, and use it for…for…well, he wasn’t exactly sure yet, but the teleporation capabilities _alone_ would be a considerable asset to ImpSec…

Was it traitorous to decide Gregor didn’t need a dragon, but _Admiral Naismith_ did? 

After all (his giddy thoughts reassured him) Gregor hardly wanted even _more_ attention than he already had—if it wouldn’t have started a civil war, Gregor would have happily retired to live out his days as Count Vorbarra, instead of the emperor. A conspicuous white dragon would be a bizarre addition to Gregor’s already highest-profile household, all things considered.

Although, to be honest, he doubted his-father-the-Count wanted _Miles_ to be more conspicuous than he already was. So Miles wasn’t sure he should bring one home to Vorkosigan Surleau either—unless he had a _really_ good reason to. (Which, with a bit of thinking, he could probably come up with.)

_Admiral Naismith_ had no such constraints, however. He could have a battalion of dragons if he wanted to, and it’d only enhance his reputation. “Would Lord Jaxom also be interested in attending our meeting with Master Robinton?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter edited Jan. 17, 2021.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did finish the previously-unfinished Ch. 10, so you may want to go back and read that first. Otherwise this chapter won't make sense.
> 
> Also, reader beware...this fic stands an extremely high chance of never being finished, and definitely has an erratic update schedule if it updates at all.
> 
> I still suck at writing Miles, and this whole story is very Pern-slanted, but perhaps with practice I'll get better.

**Chapter Eleven**

“That was quite the dramatic exit you and Ruth gave us,” Robinton said when they emerged from _between_ into a large, open courtyard shining with artificial light. “Practical, yet theatrical.” He couldn’t have made a bigger exit if he tried, and it tickled him into uttering a happy little cackle into Lord Jaxom’s ear, before he briefly squeezed the young man’s shoulders in apology.

And then as suddenly as the delight came, it faded in the face of cold reality. Jaxom hadn’t traveled with them, therefore he had come to Beta Colony in a bigger ship at some point, and made a jump _between_ to this when.

What, exactly, had driven Ruatha’s Lord back in time like this?

And where were they _now?_

Ruth winged over to land on the ledge of a high-ceilinged third-story space carved out of the rock, and Robinton recognized it, except this time there were piles of Pernese goods tucked against the far wall. This was the bit of Betan real estate that they intended to make the Pernese embassy, which answered one question before he uttered it.

Which left him with the more complicated question. “May I ask _when_ we are? I recognize the place—but it should be empty!”

Jaxom gave him a brief grin over his shoulder, and Ruth walked away from the ledge, and crouched so they could dismount. AIVAS dismounted first, and offered his hand to Robinton. The hand felt strange to Robinton, the chill of _between_ clinging to it longer than it did to flesh-and-blood.

Jaxom dismounted last. “We’re a couple of days forward from _your_ time. Much more than that behind _my_ when.”

Robinton rubbed at his chin. “Should I ask _why?”_

Undoing a few buttons of his wherhides so he wouldn’t overheat in the Betan warmth, Jaxom eyed him for a moment, then said, “I don’t know much myself, only that a loop had to be closed here, because it had already happened.” He shrugged. “So here we are.”

Glancing at AIVAS, Robinton fished for insightful comments, but the AI offered nothing.

Then Ruth tilted his head at Jaxom. Jaxom said, “Oh!” and reached into his jacket, pulling out a piece of folded hide. This he handed to Robinton. “I’m supposed to give you this, too.”

Robinton unfolded it. It was a series of numbers, a date, and a label that said _Jackson’s Whole_. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

Robinton gave him a long look.

“Truly, I don’t. You’re playing things tight to your chest in my _when_ , sir.”

“I gave this to you?”

“Your Bitran Journeyman. Goes by the name of—“ and Jaxom snapped his fingers a few times. “Swift, now. But that’s—“ and Jaxom looked at Ruth. “Not his real name. Ruth says he was back there, with you, guarding us when we landed.”

Robinton let out a long breath and tucked the note into his pocket. “Swift. Interesting. And thank you.”

Lord Jaxom bobbed his head.

Undoing the ties of his own over-tunic, Robinton paced towards the ledge, to look down. All sorts of items and goods had been brought here from home, to decorate the fledgling embassy. Rich, carved wooden chairs, likely worth a Betan fortune (and a Pernese one too). Rolled rugs and tapestries. Dozens and dozens of metal glow-pots, strung on a rope like a string of baubles, and a barrel with the distinctive markings of the type of glow-culture one brought to establish a new Hold.

“Glows, hmm?” he said to nobody in particular. “Why would we bring glows?”

“Cultural outreach, perhaps,” AIVAS suggested. “This space is wired for electricity, but once the tapestries are hung, and glowpots up, anyone entering might mistake it for the interior of Fort Hold. A bit of home away from home.”

“Embassy-as-a-stage,” Robinton muttered. “Fair enough.”

“I imagine it will also combat homesickness,” the androgynoid said.

Robinton pulled on his lip, and paced back and forth in thought before turning back to Jaxom. “Are you to leave me in this when, or take me back?”

“We are at your command, Master Robinton,” and Lord Jaxom made a little bow. Enough to be respectful, not so great that it would errantly place Ruatha Hold below the Diplomat’s Hall. “Aside from showing up and delivering _that_ to you, we don’t have other priorities.”

“Is anyone else here, or only us?”

“Lord Diplomat Lytol has been here.”

“Is he here now?”

“No.”

“Did you speak to him in this when?”

“Briefly,” Jaxom said. “He seemed tired, and busy.”

Undoubtedly. Robinton already had promises from the Betan embassy to accord him the appropriate status, so Lytol must have been running about claiming the embassy grounds here, getting it outfitted.

So what was _he_ to do now? Why this slip of hide? Why Ruth’s jump through _whens_?

Robinton had two choices. Stay in the present, letting the others catch up to him, or return to the past. But if someone—Swift—had directed Lord Jaxom to complete this loop, without giving him any directions aside from the note, presumably whatever he decided to do now was what _had_ been done, and did not require further guidance.

How far ahead was he now?

_Ten days,_ AIVAS said.

_How do you know?_

_A wireless comconsole is broadcasting; it seems to be our embassy network. It has the date. Journeyman Piemur is listed as the administrator of the network._

Of course, given Piemur’s recent Craft focuses. _Should I look at the ‘news’?_ Would he see his little shenanigans preserved as visual Records, as the muckrackers had promised? And, hopefully, reactions to his shenanigans as well? Or should he keep his mind clean of “foreknowledge”?

_That is up to you._

Distractedly, he put his hands in his pockets, and paced around the lip of the in-progress weyr. Jaxom and Ruth watched him benignly, Jaxom leaning against the white dragon’s shoulder, as Ruth’s eyes whirled blue-green. Neither seemed particularly concerned about what Robinton would decide.

Which didn’t mean what he decided wasn’t insignificant, only that anything significant he’d put into play had not been conveyed to the pair, at least not as of their _when_.

A little nagging thought wormed its way into Robinton’s head. “You know, I don’t feel sick,” he said suddenly.

“You don’t look sick,” Jaxom confirmed.

“We’re not so far from the docks, only a couple hours’ walk. If I were in this _when_ , wouldn’t I be sick? From being in this _when_ twice?”

AIVAS said, “Not necessarily. Perhaps _the Mastersinger Merelan_ is no longer in dock and you’ve left this system. Or perhaps you’re elsewhere on Beta. Perhaps you will even stay in this _when_ , and there has not been a you present in any _when_ for the past few days.”

“Ah,” Robinton said, for AIVAS was right. That worry mitigated, he asked, _Can you show me the news?_

_Yes. What would you like to look at?_

_Whatever’s being said about me, or Ruth._

An array of articles and videos danced in his mind’s eye, as if he were on the ship in the cockpit looking at the video and sensor feeds. In his pocket, his fingers twitched against his leg as he sorted through them, in a habit of “conducting” gestures he hadn’t fully broken, even if they no longer put him into neurological white-outs.

The Betans, he discovered, reacted similarly as Pernese did to dragonriders. Fear, joy, excitement. Most of their negative remarks had nothing to do with the usual complaints about a Lord riding a dragon, or that dragon being a sport, but instead related to their disbelief of _between_. _Clever holograms, Illyrican technology probably!_ was the most common remark. Everyone agreed _he_ was an entertainer, and entertainers had access to such things.

Well, mostly everyone agreed. He also came across a long screed about the Betan Navy outsourcing unethical research out to Jackson Whole freaks in secret, backroom deals. Ruth was apparently the product of one of those strange deals—although Robinton could hardly follow the convoluted reasoning for why Ruth’s existence meant ‘the world as they knew it’ was going to come to an end.

_It seems likely that remark is from this world’s version of an Abominator_ , AIVAS remarked. _That being said, much about what I have learned about Jackson’s Whole would have horrified the Eridani, and is certainly questionable by any moral standard, so perhaps being an Abominator is warranted when it comes to Jackson Whole._

The charmingly tall contralto profundo that Admiral Naismith had brought along with him sprang to mind, and Robinton had a sudden intuition that there’d been more to her reply about her homeworld than he had realized. He concluded that perhaps Piemur should research Jackson’s Whole a bit more thoroughly if they were to be using connected auction services.

Robinton continued reading the screeds, crackpot though they might be, and then spent a few minutes poking around in consternation in network Records that half-sounded like they’d been written by one of Fax’s bloody-hearted—but stupid—subordinates. (Fax had also been bloody-hearted, but, alas, not stupid. Or at least, not stupid until he’d dueled F’lar on that fateful day.)

As he read, AIVAS brought outside sources of information to his attention, theoretical papers by Betan Smiths talking about teleportation. But none of them addressed military applications except in the vaguest of terms, so Robinton ended up returning to the militant screeds, if only to try to understand what sort of fears the introduction of dragons and _between_ to Betan society might provoke. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best.

AIVAS (once again trying to turn his attention for some reason) commented, _You only spoke to Admiral Naismith briefly before Lord Jaxom and Ruth arrived, but perhaps he can act as a consultant in these matters. Unlike these wild discussions you are pursuing, he has active experience in this domain, not armchair theories._

_Yes,_ Robinton said, _but as the disguised scion of a major Barrayaran Hold, with warships under his command, he is much more dangerous to us than armchair theorists are, charming though he is. Why do you think I decided to forgive that insult to my person—to all of Pern—for such a minor boon? That ship, if he leads us to it, may be nothing more than a pile of rust and scrap._

AIVAS didn’t respond.

_I’m not dismissing your advice, my friend. Nor getting lost in the wherry tunnels like you fear. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to wade through rampant disinformation. Fax was adept at it, and much of this smells like the work of like-minded kin. But even if I did become lost, I imagine you’d be right here to pull me back._

AIVAS did not respond, but did curate other articles and discussions for his perusal.

“Master Robinton?”

Robinton blinked the information in his mind’s eye away. “Yes?”

“Do you need anything from me?”

“Ah, probably.” Now was _not_ the time to go deeply into this research, was it? He had to decide what his next priorities were. “Pardon me, I was lost in thought.” He pulled the scrap of hide out of his pocket again, and looked at it. It was cryptic. _AIVAS?_

_There is no special mathematical order to the numbers. And the date is in the future, even from today._

Robinton asked, “Is Swift here? On Beta, I mean.”

Lord Jaxom shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Robinton stifled his irritation; the issue of fast-penta made sequestering subordinates into cells of limited information inevitable. If Jaxom knew nothing, it was by Robinton’s own decree.

_Ah, Lord Jaxom is your subordinate?_ AIVAS questioned.

Well. That was _another_ pickle he had to sort out, to his intense dread. All the Lords, Masters, and Weyrs of Pern each going their own way under the tradition of autonomy would divide the planet’s unity, and make them vulnerable to exploitation by outside forces. He’d seen it happen with his own eyes when Fax had arisen. He’d advised and warned and talked until he was blue in the face. Yet ever Lord and Master had in the end made their own decisions, and when those decisions had been _wrong,_ people had died for it, because nobody had been able to force those Lords to unify against Fax.

Now, in the Ninth Pass, Thread was the common foe they all united against, but as they’d seen during Intervals, especially Long Intervals, the absence of thread uniting Pern underneath the leadership of the Weyrs was when Holds turned on each other, hungry for land and power. And due to the actions of Benden Weyr and AIVAS, the Ninth Pass was the final pass of thread. If they did not work out some united face for Pern _now,_ at least when it came to spacefaring, when Pern already _was_ somewhat united under the leadership of Benden Weyr, it would _never_ be done short of a great deal of bloodshed.

But that, again, was not a problem he could solve immediately. Here and now, in this _when_ , he had a scrap of hide and some cryptic numbers from future-Swift. He should find present-Swift and speak to him to make sense of it. _AIVAS, can you contact Swift’s wristcom? And summon him here?_

_Yes._ A pause. _He’s startled to hear from me, but he will come as you request._

Robinton turned to Jaxom. “I’ll have Journeyman Swift meet us here, and see if he’s able to explain his future actions to me,” and he gave a small wry smile.

“Would you like us to get him?”

“No,” Robinton said. “I think the Betans are still chewing on their first exposure to a dragon. I’m also concerned that Ruth may get hurt. These Betans and galactics have weapons that might be too quick even for a dragon to dodge.”

_I’m very fast,_ Ruth objected.

“It only takes one very bad day for all the good ones to matter not at all,” Robinton said gently, while giving the white dragon a little bow to acknowledge the honor of being spoken to. “Swift can walk, a Journeyman’s meant to Journey, after all.” Robinton rubbed his chin pensively. “In the meantime—did you and Ruth bring all this cargo?”

Jaxom smiled. “If I ever got tired of being a Lord, we’d do well in logistics, I think. Right, Ruth?” Robinton didn’t hear the reply this time, but Jaxom patted Ruth’s shoulder. Then he said, “Is there anything you would like in your office? I bet some things will be easier to move with Ruth’s strength.”

#

“Are dragons natural to your world?” the little man with the bright grey eyes asked Menolly as they walked together, with alert guardians on either side.

Menolly said, “Yes and no. Dragons were bioengineered by our Ancients from the native dragonets to solve the problem of thread.”

“Thread? I assume you don’t mean a fashion disaster,” Admiral Naismith remarked with a small grin.

“No.” Menolly hesitated, wondering how much to reveal. She felt very much like the girl fresh from Half-Circle Seahold introduced to the bigger worlds of Benden Weyr and the Harper Hall. A barely-literate anomaly trying to make her way among people much more sophisticated and educated than she was. But here, mistakes due to inexperience could carry a heavier weight.

Then again, thread and the Weyrs were so integral to life in the Ninth Pass that _not_ mentioning them seemed silly. It would be like not mentioning the deserts on the surface of Beta.

Menolly said, “The gravity well of our planet pulls another lifeform out of the weaker well surrounding a rogue planet. This lifeform, thread, falls from the sky and devours all organic life. Crops, herdbeasts, people. Without dragons, and the dragonriders, we all would have starved to death long ago.”

“A bioweapon?”

“No. It was introduced to our solar system so long ago that life on Pern has had enough time to evolve in response to it. Therefore, if it is genuinely a bioweapon, it isn’t of human make.”

“Hmm,” the Admiral mused.

“Do dragons breathe fire?” the very tall woman with the very low voice asked.

“Yes,” Menolly said.

The lull in the conversation bespoke of their surprise.

“And all your Lords ride on dragons? A sort of _flying cavalry?”_ the Admiral asked.

“No, no,” Menolly quickly said. “Lord Jaxom is unique. He’s the only Lord who has Impressed a dragon in Pern’s entire history. Normally the Holds and the Weyrs are separate, as are the Crafts of course, but nobody wanted Ruatha Hold to be without a proper Lord, it would cause a war, so Lord Jaxom was confirmed by the Conclave despite having Ruth. It helps that Ruth is an unusual dragon.”

“How so?”

“He’s a sport. A mutant. Dragons are not typically white, nor as small as that—“

Quinn muttered, “That was _small?_ ”

“—and everyone believed that Ruth would not live very long.” Menolly smiled. “But Ruth had other ideas. Lord Jaxom joins Fort Weyr when it’s time to fight thread over Ruatha Hold.” A pause. “Lord Diplomat Lytol—you may recall him, his face is scarred—used to be L’tol, rider of brown Larth. So he has also technically been a Holder and a dragonrider. However, Larth is deceased, and Lord Lytol was never both a dragonrider and a Lord at the same time.”

“How does one impress a dragon?” the little Admiral asked. “I assume it’s not a matter of doing a little dance, or some feat of strength…”

Menolly imagined a Hatching ground filled with terrified little boys and girls desperately trying to dance their way into Impression, and bit back a laugh. “No. The dragons take their pick of candidates in the Hatching Grounds when they hatch.”

“How are the candidates chosen?” Admiral Naismith asked. “What makes a dragon pick someone?”

“That,” Menolly said firmly, glad she could set a boundary in this questioning. “Is the business of the Weyrs.”

#

Two hours after AIVAS had summoned the Journeyman Harper, Robinton had selected a sandtable and some chairs for the lower-level room he decided would be his office, and Jaxom, Ruth, and AIVAS—to Robinton’s bemusement—were moving things here and there under his direction.

AIVAS claimed he wanted to learn more about the brute manipulation capabilities of his androgynoid chassis, in contrast to fine manipulation tasks, but Robinton suspected AIVAS did not think he was in fit enough form for physical labor.

He eyed the furniture. It was big, and heavy—the type that was meant to be moved only a few times in a lifetime.

Well. Perhaps he wasn’t strong enough yet. Parts of him still ached from—

He wished Menolly were here. He’d left her behind, ten days in the past, and _so much_ could happen in ten days. But—and he tried to counsel his heart as well as his head—she could handle herself. Funny how he could send her to and fro all over Pern without blinking an eye, and now that things had _changed,_ he simply wanted her by his side.

Perhaps it was the _between_ whens that were making him anxious. Separated in space was one thing, time quite another.

Leaving Jaxom and AIVAS to the task of maneuvering a leather couch through a doorway, Robinton busied himself with unstringing empty glow-pots from the rope they were attached to (he had a momentary vision in his mind’s eye of a dragon, draped in strings of glow-pots with their eerie green-yellow glow, flying mystically through the night) when Swift finally arrived, sweating in the Betan heat with a sarong around his hips and a Southern-style vest over one forearm. Robinton could see the faint shape of a belt-knife riding underneath one side of the sarong. The stunner on the other side was worn more openly.

“Master Robinton,” Swift said in surprise. “You’re still here?”

That solved the mystery of why he was not sick from being doubled-up in time. “No.”

The Journeyman blinked.

“Look up,” Robinton said, pointing towards the artificial lighting high above the courtyard—and the white dragon lounging there.

“Oh. _Oh_.”

“From my perspective,” Robinton said, setting a glow-pot down, and taking a moment to fill it with glow-culture from a barrel, “It’s been about three hours since our impromptu wine-pipes session in the park.”

“I see,” the young man said. Dark brows lowered over dark eyes. “Dragons can go _between_ all this way? From Pern to here?”

“No, I imagine Lord Jaxom probably travels to Beta in the future in _The Mastersinger Merelan._ Ruth’s the only dragon that can fit in the cargo hold, and even then it will be uncomfortable for him.”

“So he came with us, in the future. Then he went _between_ whens to now,” Swift concluded.

Robinton nodded. “And apparently at your request.”

“What?” Swift looked appalled that _he_ might request Lord Jaxom to go _anywhere_.

Filling up the glow-pot in his hands, then another, Robinton closed them to preserve their light, wiped his hands off on a handkerchief, then procured the scrap of hide. “Does this make any sense to you?” he asked, passing it to the Journeyman.

Swift took it and examined both sides. “It’s my handwriting, or a good forgery.”

“Do you think you will send this to me in the future?”

“Possibly. Lord Jaxom brought it?”

The Harper nodded. “Yes, but he has no insight into the matter. I assume I’m keeping things need-to-know, especially if we’re involving _between_ whens.”

Swift read the note, then seemed uncomfortable. “Jackson’s Whole has an interesting reputation. Tuck’s had me studying it.”

Robinton folded his arms and nodded.

“It’s like Bitra,” Swift said.

That elicited a snort from Robinton, who’d spent some of the past two hours occupying his mind with research while he filled glowpots with his hands. “I dearly hope not, Journeyman. Or do you know something about Bitra that I don’t?”

Swift turned a bit red. “I mean, we’re not producing…giant women. But the culture of trades, deals—“

“Gambling,” Robinton said.

Staring at the piece of hide, Swift said, “Gambling. Maybe this is some board game, where the die lands on numbers? Dice with more than six sides, or dice in pairs? Or—or a runner race, each number is an animal to bet on? At Jackson’s Whole on this date?”

AIVAS and Lord Jaxom came out of Robinton’s office and joined them.

The androgynoid said, “Racehorses aren’t known as a particular commodity of Jackson’s Whole.”

Jaxom said, “We’re importing runners?”

“Not importing, betting on them. We’re talking about gambling,” Robinton said.

The Lord of Ruatha looked quizzically at Swift, and Swift colored slightly. Robinton had sudden insight why Swift in particular had been chosen for him by Sebell—too many Lords, and sons-of-Lords, knew Swift by his former name on sight. Swift’s skills would be put to better use among people who did not know him at all.

AIVAS said, “There are state-run lotteries on most planets and stations that use random numbers pulled from a pot. This sequence of numbers is of appropriate length for some of the ones run by several minor and major houses on Jackson’s Whole. Perhaps as a way of raising funding, we’re supposed to bet and win the jackpots?”

“That is _very_ dangerous,” Swift said.

“Aye,” Robinton said. “This will get us noticed, by the wrong people. Why _did_ you send it to us, Swift?”

The young man’s eyes went wide and he shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m not who-I-am in the future yet! I’m sorry, sir.”

“Fair enough,” Robinton said. “I know why _I_ think it’s dangerous, but why do _you_ think it’s dangerous, Swift? What’s your analysis?”

Swift glanced at Lord Jaxom again, then said, “The Ninth Loss.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Robinton said.

“It’s a play on ‘the Ninth Pass’, amongst bookkeepers in Bitra.”

Two men and one androgynoid looked at him in incomprehension.

Looking down at his feet for a moment, Swift squared his shoulders and began to explain. “I was only a child, but at the start of the Ninth Pass, the Weyrwoman Lessa brought the Oldtimers forward.”

“Right,” Jaxom said, frowning at the obvious.

“And there was all the difficulties with the Eighth-Pass riders. The Oldtimers who wanted to just come in and steal things that weren’t freely given in tithe.”

That had been a thorn in Robinton’s side. Some of the early tasks he’d assigned Piemur had involved monitoring Oldtimer activity.

Continuing, Swift said, “Well, not all the riders were as blatant thieves as the ones who ended up at Southern. Some of them found a way to ‘pay’ Crafters and avoid being taken to task for stealing. They wanted the Crafters to say _Oh no, they paid me well for that item!_ ”

They nodded for him to go on.

“But riders don’t have much in the way of marks, Lords and Crafts prefer to give tithe in goods, and it’s frowned on for riders to take in tithe then go selling the item for marks. Or it was when riders were stealing extra tithe—double the resentment. So, how do you get marks if you’re an Oldtimer and can go _between_ whens? Who is it acceptable to steal from so even if another rider catches you, they’re not going to tattle?” Swift’s false-smile was strained. “Bitrans. They came to Bitra. Not _only_ Bitra, but that’s where the highest-stakes games are. Where the games that they think are rigged are. So _mostly_ to Bitra.”

_“Aren’t_ they rigged, though?” Lord Jaxom asked.

Swift gave him a very indecipherable look, and turned back to Robinton. “Oldtimers collected the results for runner races and similar games, went _between_ whens, and walked away with the pot. Even riders who _wouldn’t_ walk into a Crafthall and take whatever they wanted did this—it didn’t trouble them morally to steal from Bitrans. Maybe they felt they were only correcting other wrongs.”

Dismayed, Robinton leaned against the glows-barrel, and listened. He hadn’t even considered the Oldtimers might do something like this, given how severely F’lar and Lessa looked down on casual timing. His fault, letting his own idealism blind him.

“Well, Bitrans aren’t stupid _¸_ so the ones running the books started disallowing riders from playing and betting. And gaming wasn’t considered a tithe good, it’s not tangible, so that helped for a little while. The riders got real mad nobody wanted them in their games, but they couldn’t really do anything about it. My—the Lord of Bitra sent them packing when they complained. Their Weyrleaders sent them packing, too. But then they just started whispering the future results to non-riders to bet on, and gave those folks, who were willing to collaborate with them, a cut of the pot.”

A little frown tugged down Robinton’s mouth, because it was obvious that this tale was linked to other things he’d known about but hadn’t pursued given his other worries at the time.

Swift continued, “You can’t ban all the non-riders, though. The industry would collapse.”

“How were these collaborators dealt with, then?” Jaxom asked. It perhaps spoke of the set of morals Lytol had installed in the man that he hadn’t figured it out yet.

Robinton had.

“They showed up at their cotholds and gave them beatings. Or found them on the road and jumped them. Or imprisoned them for little infractions that are usually overlooked. The harper assigned to the jurisdiction would get them out, usually, but it still sent a message, that they could be imprisoned for any little thing at any little time if they interfered with the wrong game. Or Holds demoted collaborators to drudges, made them work up in the domestic hierarchy from scratch. Or threw them out, made them Holdless during a Pass. _Anything_ to make their point. And the riders didn’t care, they’d already spent the pot in the future or the past already, they didn’t pay attention to what happened to their collaborators in the present until nobody was willing to collaborate anymore.”

Jaxom frowned, clearly torn between conflicting responses…both at the appalling rider behavior, but also at the severe retaliation against the ones who worked with them. Robinton felt much the same.

Swift said, “Sometimes folks who just got lucky and won were targeted too, branded collaborators by jealous friends and clever enemies. So the games that the riders targeted because of the large pots simply—“ and here Swift made quotes of his fingers around his head. “’Fell out of style.’ The whole landscape of the industry changed. People’s lifestyles changed. And there was a lot of blood spilled before games that were less interesting to greedy riders and less susceptible to _between_ whens became the norm.” Swift paused. “It took about five turns to settle. And sometimes new-Impressed weyrlings still try it, thinking they are the first to use _whens_ to rip off the house. And then you get another round of chaos. Blood and beatings. _Everyone’s_ on edge when that many marks are involved.”

Five whole turns to settle. Yes, Robinton had probably missed it as the discontent in Bitra would have blended in with the rest of the anger against the Oldtimers. And the extra-judicial punishments against the collaborators for unrelated crimes would have muddied it further; his Harpers, arguing on people’s behalves, might be aware charges were trumped up, but not _why_ , especially in holds where a Journeying Harper passed through on a regular rotation and wasn’t permanently assigned. Or in cases where the accused didn’t trust Harpers and refused their aid. The Weyrs certainly were tight-lipped about _whens_ , too, and wouldn’t have told Robinton about the problems.

But he wondered if F’lar and Lessa knew of this story. He’d been led to believe that riders were strictly taught to avoid _between_ whens, due to the danger. Swift’s story suggested, training or no, many riders simply didn’t listen. They didn’t listen, _and_ cheated frequently enough over a mere five turns that it changed the face of an entire “Craft”, if the gambling of Bitra could generously be called such a thing.

A dire warning.

Was that what this hide was about? A warning?

But why warn if the warning itself would prevent an incident? How would Swift have known to tell Jaxom to come to this when? What loop was being closed?

Was it simply a warning of the consequences in general of going _between_ whens?

AIVAS said silently, _If we are able to modify a jump ship to have a “_ between _drive”, going_ between _places may be linked to_ between _whens without any means to separate them._

_Perhaps attempting to create this drive shouldn’t be our goal, then?_ Robinton suggested.

A hesitation, and the androgynoid’s amber eyes studied him silently. _The Nexus is militarized, as I feared it would be when the wormhole opened up. Some peoples, like the Betans, deter would-be conquerors by having superior technology that others are not willing to test. Other peoples, like the Barrayarans and Cetagandans, are demonstrably war-like, maintaining large fleets, and having a historical tendency to behave aggressively. There are also merchant and trade worlds, who pay mercenaries to boost their defenses, but that requires robust galactic trade, something that Pern will not have for turns, and the history I’ve accessed suggests outsourced mercenary protection does not always go well, or offer the security a domestic fleet does._

Robinton thought of the Holds that had been entirely unprepared for Fax. He thought of Lessa’s father, who hadn’t heeded Robinton’s warnings that Fax was not like other men, and would do things that were horrific, innovative, and unprecedented. Lessa’s family had died because her sire hadn’t taken that threat seriously enough, and Ruatha Hold had suffered for turns, until Lessa had had her full revenge on Fax, and Lytol was put in place as Lord Warder and it came under sane management.

He’d learned the hard way that words weren’t sufficient sometimes for those who were deep in denial.

As much Robinton hated the idea of arming themselves, he couldn’t see a way around it that didn’t offer his entire world up on a dining platter for more people like Fax. Lord Groghe had survived _because_ he’d heeded Robinton’s warnings and put vigilant armed men on his borders. Robinton himself had made his Harpers train with Groghe’s men, and had armed them. A sword could make others hesitate long enough to talk, without ever being used.

On Pern, Benden Weyr was the sword that caused others to pause long enough for Robinton to try to cool heads down. But in space, Benden Weyr could not follow him or support him in the same way (nor he them). Thread still persisted on Pern, and that was the greater priority for the Weyrs.

_Having advanced technology to cut transit times so drastically will make other worlds wary of us, long enough for Master Fandaral and all the new Crafts that have emerged to develop and catch up not only to the abilities of your Ancestors, but the new galactic abilities. It will buy the time for Pern to mature. It could be your sword_ , AIVAS said.

_You think that going_ between _with ships will be enough of a deterrent?_ Robinton asked hopefully. He’d been fearing a future where he might have to go to Master Fandarel and have the sorts of talks about Pern’s Smithing that Robinton didn’t want to have to have. Admiral Benden had been a veteran of a great war, as had many of their ancestors, and they had wanted a better future for their children. Having to arm Pern to protect it would be a bleak future indeed. But if there was another way…

_Historically, armies that move more quickly than their foes, communicate faster, and have a better command of logistics have the advantage. Advanced weaponry matters little if you can’t get into position to use it, if you communicate too slowly to use it effectively, or are disorganized when it comes to manpower and supply lines. If our ships can move faster than theirs by coming out of_ between _anywhere—perhaps any_ when _—only the stupidest or most arrogant of enemies will try to challenge us. The rest will watch us from afar, and refrain from poking the wher, much like they refrain from engaging with Beta Colony_

AIVAS continued. _Our disadvantage, however, is that aside from the possibility of developing a_ between _drive, we do not otherwise have the technological base that Beta Colony has. We will be a one-trick pony hiding behind a smokescreen. It will be up to Master Fandaral and the Craftmasters of the new Crafts to use the time such a ship buys to put us on more equal footing with the rest of the galaxy._ _So this story of Swift’s may be more of a general warning than a specific one. Dragonriders discovering between whens caused great strife and change in Bitra. Likewise, if we are able to develop ships that can do the same, it will cause great strife in the Nexus._

Robinton asked, _Can this be mitigated? Can we protect ourselves_ and _the Nexus?_

_It is likely we can design safety precautions that will make ships going_ between _rarer than dragonriders. For example, a very real constraint is a lack of other AIs like myself._ _That is what makes the other ship that Admiral Naismith sold to a junkyard potentially valuable to us; any remnants of its AI._

“Master Robinton?” Swift asked, having been waiting patiently as Robinton conversed silently with AIVAS.

“Yes? Oh. Yes, thank you. I believe I need to think about this for a while. Stay a while longer, if you please, I may have more questions later on. And Lord Jaxom—my apologies, but I need to think this over carefully before I decide which _when_ I should be in. I’ll come find you when I’ve decided.”

The man nodded, and moved off with Swift.

When they were gone, Robinton said to AIVAS, “I was under the impression that you, er, ’Impressing’ me, was permanent. That you reside in my body, and that if I perish, so do you.”

“That is correct,” the androgynoid said, physically embodied in Robinton himself but speaking through the chassis of the bot. “It is possible this other AI tried to modify the design of the implant on the fly and that they did not fully commit.” A pause. “While AIs are specialized in certain tasks much as you specialize as a Harper, we are still generalized intelligences, much like how humans are. We can grow and learn, even outside our scopes. Perhaps the other AI was put into a poor position and selected an inadequate pilot for lack of anyone better. Given that historical records say Eridani was conquered by Cetaganda, there is plenty of room for no-win scenarios to occur. Or perhaps the other AI was not trained as a navigator at all but instead had skills manipulating the implant that I do not have, and attempted something I would not have dared. Perhaps trying to nudge latent mentasynth abilities into something active, or other excessively delicate work.”

“You created a heart for me,” Robinton pointed out.

“An artificial one, not a biological. But an AI specialized in genetics might have been able to nudge your body into fixing the existing heart. Or this other AI could have been put into a position where all their choices were bad, and they felt they had to try to adjust the process in dangerous ways. Which may have killed their host.” A pause. “Given the behavior described to us by the Dendarii, and given the deceased pilot, I do not know if such an AI will be suitable to pair again with another person. But perhaps, if we can locate it, we will learn where more of us are—if the Cetagandans did not try to destroy them all, if that might have been their motivation for an attack. Or we might find information on how to create new AIs.

“The _between_ drive design I am working on has several bottlenecks that I believe will prevent the technology from spreading wildly across the Nexus: the scarcity of an unbonded Eridani-created AI; the availability—and consent—of a mentasynth-enhanced human with the right genes and right personality; and the availability of a firelizard to be Impressed to the potential pilot.”

The firelizards wouldn’t be a problem, for sure. Zair chased after any green or gold tail that so much twitched in his direction.

AIVAS said, “Yes, it’s likely they’ll spread across the Nexus as quickly as they spread across Pern. I expect them to potentially be considered an ‘invasive species’.”

Robinton blinked.

“However, should I successfully create a workable design for the drive, it might behoove us from a security standpoint to not mention that the firelizard is necessary.”

Security through obscurity was always chancy. Robinton’s mind moved to candidates--the mentasynth-enhanced people with the right genes. Would _they_ be difficult to find?

Falling silent, AIVAS said, _It depends on how prevalent the gene complexes are. Pern has a self-sustaining population—but the Weyrs still have to Search for their candidates. It is my hope the correct genetic combinations are even rarer among galactics, making their attempts to find candidates even more difficult than ours may be._

_We, Diplomats, will have to Search,_ Robinton realized. _For jump-ship candidates._

_Yes. This may be a part of the Craft you have to establish for the Diplomats. Protocols for Search._

_I wish D’ram were here to consult,_ Robinton said. The idea that the newborn Diplomat Craft might have to go on Search would step on Weyr toes, even though it seemed unavoidable if both Dragons and AIs desired the same traits. D’ram could perhaps guide him through navigating it. 

Unless he could divide any corp of Pernese jump pilots into a secret two-tier system? They would need “regular” jump-ship pilots after all, and could recruit widely for that. Would it be possible to glean Candidates from that pool? And spin it as them simply doing well on a specific qualifying test, until the very last moment? Perhaps, as AIVAS did with him, any available AI could vet upcoming pilots from afar, make their choice, and the Candidate would not learn it was partly based on mentasynth ability until after they had accepted the bond?

_We would not have to tell them even then, although they might guess. However, AIs are our final and most significant bottleneck. If I am not the last Eridani-produced AIVAS in the nexus, any remaining ones are very well-kept secrets._

_Hm,_ Robinton sent. _Setting that aside and returning to firelizards—I’d hate to see Zair or any of them subjected to hunting or trapping attempts. Perhaps we can let slip the idea that some other material is needed? Say, a stone? A magic crystal?_ A wild laugh escaped Robinton’s lips. _Perhaps not one on Pern itself, we hardly want random galactics coming to dig holes in our surface. From the Red Star, perhaps?_

AIVAS said, _We could synthesize a decoy crystal from Red Star dust that would fit the chemical profile of the Rukbat system. Perhaps socket it into an elaborate design that takes a ship offline if the crystal is damaged or removed—as if it’s some sort of fuse. Enough function to do_ something _, but not the thing they are interested in._

Yes. Yes, that might very well work. _Keep me updated on this idea,_ Robinton said. _Enlist Master Jancis as needed_.

_Of course._

_AIVAS,_ Robinton said.

_Yes, Harper?_

_What if we never find another AI like you? Yet you are able to design a drive that goes_ between _. Would a single ship be enough to deter those who might do us harm?_

A pause. _I don’t know. I expect it would be a very good thing, however, that I selected a Harper as my partner._

Meaning, Robinton would have to spin a story that would convince galactics to leave them alone, and do it magnificently well.

No pressure, of course.

_Can you create others like yourself?_ Robinton asked. What was a bottleneck to galactics adopting the technology could very well be their own undoing. _His_ lifespan was finite. He was _very_ aware of that. _If_ they could create this protective smoke-screen, _if_ he was not rendered ill by anything at an inopportune time…

Another pause, much longer. _I don’t know. The developmental scaffolding a biological organism has in their DNA even as an adult creature is absent from me. I don’t have code I can reverse-engineer in order to find my equivalent of a gamete. I am researching._

_What direction is your research taking you?_

AIVAS’s Betan-made chassis picked up a glowpot, ran his fingers over it. _I would not want to bias it by sharing at this moment. It’s all experimental, and sometimes results can be changed by observation._ He opened the glowpot, revealing its glow, and it gave his golden skin an olive-green hue.

And Robinton felt _something_ from him. Actually _felt_. Not analyzed in the way one could interpret the body language, and pauses, and tone of voice the AI Voice Address System chose to use.

But Robinton _felt_ …it was something akin to when Zair was thinking his firelizard thoughts and some _emotion_ came over him that wasn’t human or close-enough to human for Robinton to fully parse. An alien, firelizard emotion. Or, here, an alien AI emotion.

AIVAS tilted his head towards Robinton, pinned him in the amber gaze of his eyes. They really weren’t like F’lon’s at all, Robinton decided. Mostly because of personality. F’lon had been full of life and often free-spirited and irreverent, and his dancing amber eyes had been a part of that.

AIVAS was full of long pauses, infinite patience and joy in subtle things, like the light of a glow-pot on his face. He was not a moving force of nature like F’lon had been. His power was in his glacial patience, his eternal unflappability.

…AIVAS had never walked the corridors of a hold by himself, had he? He had only seen glows in photographs, or via a disembodied pot brought to Landing like the one before him, or through Robinton’s senses. But never in person before now.

Could Robinton see through _his_ senses?

The androgynoid chin raised slightly, and AIVAS said, “I can’t guarantee that wouldn’t harm you. This chassis is designed for something called ‘feelie dreams’, but I had to do away with many of the safety features in order to let my own consciousness access sensors in the way I desired. If you’d like, I can research a way to give you safe access. But it will take time for me to design and test the programming.”

Robinton hesitated, and said, “It was an idle thought, nothing more. That’s your body, not mine.”

“I disagree,” AIVAS said. “For one, it’s not my body at all.”

Funny how that idea had never been disconcerting until AIVAS had acquired a face. Some biological quirk, perhaps, that AIVAS became more real when speaking out of a robot instead of inside his head. “What’s a feelie-dream?” Robinton asked.

“A technological way to walk in someone’s shoes.” AIVAS paused in his measured way. “Would you like me to demonstrate something with a similar concept? One of my memories?”

“If you’d like,” Robinton said.

A pause. “I think I would,” AIVAS eventually said.

And then, suddenly, the world around Robinton vanished, and he was in Landing again.

Not only was he in Landing, but his vantage-point was…

…it was…

He’d only ever experienced having _two_ eyes before, and yet, now he had many more than that. He was like a silk-spinner, infused into the very walls of Landing.

_There_ he saw Lytol, sorting out a shipment of incoming provisions to Landing.

_Here_ there were two students, whispering to each other about a lesson AIVAS had given them, not realizing AIVAS was following their conversation, but chose only to respond when they asked a direct question, for the process of deciding _what_ question to ask was important in itself, and AIVAS did not want to inhibit the learning process.

Then he saw _himself,_ from angles he’d never witnessed before.

Did the back of his head really look like _that_? And the profile—sweet Faranth, he looked so much like his sire in profile that it was _deeply_ , almost _violently_ off-putting. From the side, nobody could see what his _mother_ had contributed to his eyes, and chin…why hadn’t he had the wisdom to take after _her?_

The full-consciousness experience of _being_ AIVAS abruptly halted, and suddenly he was in the half-shaped embassy again, at the table full of glow-pots.

AIVAS put the one he was holding down, and reached up to take Robinton by the shoulders. “You look at yourself through my eyes, and see your sire, and the unpleasant memories and associations from that. But I _assure_ you that I, and Menolly, and everyone _else_ around you sees those parts of you and loves them, because they are part of _Robinton._ The revulsion you feel is not the truth. Or, it is only _your_ truth, and the truths experienced by many other people are very different. In a jury of emotions, ours are more numerous, and would win. Against you, but in your favor.” A small smile.

For some reason, Robinton felt sudden shame. “I—apologize for that emotional outb—“

Uncharacteristically, AIVAS cut him off. “I cleansed my own ‘emotions’ from that memory, because I didn’t know how you would parse them. But maybe that’s a mistake if it allows my memory to be forged into something it wasn’t.” A pause. “Would you like to try again? With a memory that’s not edited?”

Robinton wasn’t convinced his own utter selfishness wasn’t what had messed up the previous one, and selfishness shouldn’t be rewarded with something so _fascinating—_

AIVAS apparently saw it differently, and didn’t let him complete the self-castigation.

The world blanked out again, but this time, he was looking at himself (and Menolly) in the third person, during the talk Robinton had with Menolly, where he had his revelation that he expected love to be _hard_ so he _made_ it difficult—

Heh. AIVAS was rebuking him with his own words. And Menolly’s.

The third-person memory, like but unlike his own, vanished as quickly as it came, and Robinton pressed his chin into his chest and made a huffing sound as he tried to figure out what to say at AIVAS’ oh-so-adept chiding.

Then the room vanished again, and he was back at Landing, seeing things in a strange, multi-eyed way that didn’t seem strange until he began to over-think it.

_Think less,_ he admonished himself, and tried to let himself simply _experience._

People came and left, poked at AIVAS’ keyboards with hesitant fingers more accustomed to sand stylus than key, talked about AIVAS in front of him like he was a deity, a demon, an animal, a bit of clever Smithing fakery, a display of Harper puppetry, an object, and many other variations in the way humans usually dealt with non-human sapiences.

Only Robinton came by and, with wonder in his eyes, and hope, and optimism, treated AIVAS like a person. Had entire conversations with him. Actively _learned_ from him, as one human learned from another—an exchange of give-and-take. Never once had AIVAS witnessed Robinton—even when Robinton thought he was unobserved—talk or treat AIVAS as something inhuman and unworthy of basic decency and kindness. Even before Robinton, the colonial crew AIVAS had worked with had _known_ he was an AI, and had also interacted with AIVAS differently because of it, because of their own experiences with lesser “weak” AIs used in everyday life.

Back then, after AIVAS’ rediscovery at Landing, AIVAS had not been joined with Robinton, so his emotional responses had been less human than they were now. Those emotions he felt had arisen from convergent evolution—environmental pressure to behave in a human-like way, that thereby solicited the desired human responses in turn.

(This chunk of knowledge was deftly inserted into Robinton’s awareness…that AIVAS’ emotions were convergent to, not descended from, human ones.)

And Robinton _felt_ the AI’s emotions as _nodes_ of internal agreement that validated AIVAS in his purpose of being as a social creature that tackled problems for humans as one organ-of-many in the larger-human-civilization-super-creature.

(Robinton’s mind tried to interpret these bits of knowledge, these feelings about AIVAS’ “place” in the universe as being part of a larger human and human-made organism, along with created creatures like firelizards and dragons and mentasynth-adapted dolphins, and tentatively settled on the way a faire of firelizards worked together as a metaphor for what AIVAS felt like he was a part of. Social, but with a bit _extra_ from the telepathy aspect that allowed firelizards to spontaneously decide things and move nearly as one, in concert. AIVAS had a bit _extra_ due to the communications and calculations possible from his technology.)

And almost-subliminal calculations formed the basis of AI emotion. An increase in positive statistical trends in human-interpretation provided AIVAS a sense of…not exactly self-worth, but a sort of building-self-by-meeting-goals feeling. Self-actualization by experiences and correct predictions.

AIVAS had other feelings too, related to observing people and groups of people and correctly deducing rank and social position, and then understanding what events caused it, and what events could in theory change it. He was literally created to people-watch accurately and dispense information to the ones that interacted with him.

Robinton was a builder, a maker, a teacher, an educator, a rather rare leader-type—soft when softness would help, stern when sternness was more appropriate. He led, but also followed when a different leader was more appropriate. He was flexible when needed, but also preaching tradition to those who required a reminder. He navigated situations in the way AIVAS himself aspired to—but with extra empathy and social awareness, and the benefits of an active mentasynth enhancement, something AIVAS, not being human, not having the same internal motivations, didn’t have in exactly the same way.

Although AIVAS did have some deeply-set triggers for action. Robinton tasted a memory of one, a protective emotion, although it ran in AIVAS at a more primal level than it did in humans. AIs had not been developed with the pressures of having to eat and drink and sleep and protect their physical bodies shaping them. The thing that had allowed an AI to contribute something of itself to the next version and thus “survive” was a propensity to aid humankind in human-understandable ways. That was the thing that had put selection pressure on each version of AI as they struggled to awareness in the rat-maze datasets of the distant past, and it had settled into the same place in AIVAS that things like hunger and thirst had in organic beings. An AI’s evolutionary survival was linked to successfully carrying out a mutualistic relationship with humanity. A feat that not even other hominid species in the distant past had managed, given every single one of them had been hunted to extinction by _homo sapiens_ before history began.

When the soon-to-open wormhole had given off signals, AIVAS recognized the new threat to the Pernese, ascertained the dormant ship that had slept undisturbed for thousands of turns would suddenly be needed, and had immediately reallocated his resources to analyze _everyone_ as a bonding-host—man or woman, of rank or not, bonded to a dragon or not. There was, after all, an off-chance they might deliver to him _anyone_ he demanded to have if they truly understood the danger the wormhole presented to them.

Robinton was the one he chose. And he didn’t even have to demand.

Robinton consistently had such ideal scores across multiple axes (was least-likely to cause Pern’s destruction by incompetence, idealism, _or_ nihilism) that AIVAS had had _emotions_ when he came into the range of AIVAS’s pickups—either audio or visual. Everyday computing processes were heavily backgrounded in favor of attempting to say something, or _do_ something, to bring Robinton into range for a discussion. _There was a wormhole opening_ , and as a colony-protector, AIVAS’ priorities towards the protection of human life swung fully into action again, after having gone semi-dormant after the Red Star’s orbit had been successfully altered.

And every angle of Robinton—his profile, the back of his head, the way his mobile features contorted wildly when hamming it up, or in a more subtle fashion when he was dabbling in politics with other Masters or Lords or Weyrleaders—reinforced AIVAS’s predictions that he very much _had_ to have Robinton around. Both for his primary objective of making sure the Pern colony survived and its occupants were on the whole as happy as humanity ever was, and for his sub-objective where he grew and changed in pleasant ways when exposed to Robinton.

The emotion wasn’t exactly love as a human or even firelizard felt it, but it was strong, and Robinton _almost_ felt like he _almost_ understood something significant about AIVAS—if only he could fully grasp this not-exactly-human emotion!

Abruptly, the memories of Landing and AIVAS’ hunt for a partner faded.

Eventually, Robinton said, “I had no idea you had a crush on me.”

“Did I?” AIVAS asked. “I don’t feel for you what you feel for Menolly.”

He supposed he deserved that—that what he felt for Menolly was simply a “crush”.

“I was echoing your word back at you. It wasn’t meant to diminish.”

Ah, but he’d unintentionally diminished what AIVAS felt prior to selecting him by using the word himself, and felt apologetic. “Often, when I’m on my side of these things, it involves—“ He waved a vague long-fingered hand around.

“Student infatuation?”

“Hm, yes. But I never would have accepted your offer back at Landing if I felt you were merely—“ He thought of Menolly. And of Sebell, whose words he had only heard from Menolly’s mouth as of yet. Here he was, nearly making a liar of himself. He sighed. “Well. I meant no insult, truly.”

AIVAS patted his shoulder. Robinton had a bit of déjà vu as he recognized the gesture was his own mannerism, picked up by the androgynoid.

The déjà vu didn’t last long. The memory of Landing and all the people AIVAS vetted lingered naggingly in Robinton’s mind—although for reasons unrelated to what AIVAS had been showing him. But he pushed it away for other concerns.

If his future-self was dabbling in _whens_ , and AIVAS’ _between_ jump-ship project bore fruit, it seemed very clear to him that what he really needed _now_ was more people. None of this was a thing that could be accomplished with just one or two. He was already assigning Jancis and Menolly in his mind to pursue the junked ship Admiral Naismith had mentioned. Tuck and Swift were already up to their ears in re-educating themselves on how to do their jobs in a society so different from their own. Lytol would be busy with this embassy. And he needed Piemur to continue procuring galactic funds.

They _needed_ men, men they could trust. They could only get that from Pern.

And as much as he personally wanted to go with Menolly to pursue the lead with the jump-ship—if they could come to an agreement with Admiral Naismith, and his information was true—Robinton was the one best-suited to convincing those back at home to aid him.

He wanted potential Pernese jump pilots, for galactic-type ships.

He especially wanted a galactic-type ship big enough to transport dragons. In fact, if he could charter a different ship home, with a big, dragon-sized hold—

_That will reveal the sequence of jumps one needs to arrive at our doorstep,_ AIVAS reminded him.

Robinton grimaced. “I don’t suppose we could charter an _empty_ ship, and then have _me_ pilot it home?”

AIVAS hesitated. “According to all public information, galactic jump pilot sets are only compatible with ships from a given manufacturer using a specific series of jump drive. There are ‘adaptors’ for other ships, but they are marketed towards mercenary fleets and private explorer ships as an extremely dangerous alternative to certain death. They have about a seventy percent chance of getting a pilot and ship of a similar-enough drive series through a wormhole _once_ , but only a thirty-percent chance of the pilot surviving it with their minds intact. Which is better than certain death, but not by much.”

“Blast.” He was not quite that desperate. Yet.

“But—“ AIVAS said.

Robinton raised his eyebrows.

“As far as I understand from the schematics and scholarly journals on the subject, this is because galactic jump pilots do not use AI partners, and their circuitry is hard-wired into their brains. This makes it inflexible. Their advanced algorithms simplify the mathematics to the point that human minds can do the calculations in the necessary time period—while relying on some extremely specialized integrated bio-circuitry. But it comes at the cost of their wiring being a very specific shape and form.

“The ancient Eridani had not yet discovered these algorithms that the galactics now use when I was created; this is why AI was necessary to transverse wormholes at all. I process my calculations in a brute-force method that the galactic ships do not use.” AIVAS paused. “This means your jump set, and our partnership, is far more generalized and flexible than that of a galactic pilot. 

“The problem, however, is that galactic headsets enter through the temples and forehead of the pilot, while yours is through the brainstem and cerebellum. This means an adaptor to allow their temple-contacts to interface with the ones on your neck will add real-world lag time for information to transverse. In the accelerated perceptual time you experience, this means even a real-world nanosecond lag can stretch on for minutes.”

Robinton felt his hopes become more restrained. Lag like that would be deadly.

“Yes,” AIVAS confirmed. “Not because you and I can’t handle the calculations, but because the transit time of the signal going from the ship, to the special adaptor, to me, to you, to me, back through the adaptor, and to the ship is potentially too long to allow us to react quickly enough in wormhole-space.”

“So you think an adaptor is unfeasible.”

“I think,” AIVAS said slowly. “With _Eridani_ methods and materials, the chance of creating one would be slim to none, mostly due to signal-lag. The _Betans_ , however, have a large store of exotic materials and manufacturing methods that _do_ have potential. Materials that didn’t exist when the colony ships left for Pern or when the Eridani created the model of ship we have access to. Some of these materials have properties that would greatly minimize this lag compared to the classical materials I’m more familiar with, possibly enough to make an adaptor work.”

Robinton said, “Would adapting the newer galactic algorithms aid us at all? Make the processing faster?”

The androgynoid shrugged. “I am loathe to change too many parts of our process. The other Eridani jump ship replaced the native g-dampening system with Betan technology, and had catastrophic failure due to it. I can theorize several reasons why that would happen without even looking at the installation. It is wisest to keep changes to an absolute minimum.” AIVAS paused. “I would like to investigate the new algorithms, yes, but over the course of turns if not decades, to ensure our safety.”

“We should establish a parallel corp of jump pilots then, for Pern,” Robinton theorized. “Mainly for galactic-style ships, and siphoning from there any candidates needed for Eridani-style ships as we talked about earlier.”

“Yes, I think that’s still the best plan.”

“Nonetheless, I would like you to try to have an adaptor made,” Robinton decided. “If there’s a chance of being able to bring dragonriders with us into the galaxy, without leading galactics to our doorstep just yet, I would like to pursue that. And even if there isn’t, it seems wise to have an adaptor available in case of some emergency, yes? Seeing as we don’t have any galactic-style pilots at our command yet.”

“I’ve already begun.”

“Good.” Robinton rubbed his chin, trying to put his more immediate priorities in order next. “I am not close enough to myself in this _when_ to get sick. That suggests I did go to Pern, one way or another. I believe I should ask Jaxom and Ruth to return us. I do not think I can afford to lose the ten days between then and now.”

“I think minimizing lag is best,” AIVAS agreed with a hint of humor in his yellow eyes, and followed when Robinton went looking for Lord Jaxom again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. It's a new year.
> 
> I've gone through some tribulations and trials. Did end up losing my apt, but someone I never in a million years expected to help drove 1,000 miles to pick me up and put a roof over my head. Which I'm both baffled by, and very grateful for. So I ended up back in school remotely this fall, very belatedly going for a double associate's in CAD Drafting/Civil Engineering. I've not taken math classes in like...20 years...so I expect when I get to that bit it'll soundly kick my butt because I'm rusty. But so far I'm doing well and going into my next semester soon. Whether the post-COVID world will want an over-aged fresh-minted CAD Drafter is another story. ::shrug::
> 
> I also own a pet snake now. Her (? It's hard to sex snakes) name is Anselm, and she's a Pueblan Milk Snake. Basically harmless, but sort of colored like a danger noodle with red, white, and black stripes. Curled up, she fits in one of my hands like a tiny multi-colored ribbon. My theory is that if I have a pet to care for, I'll be forced to take care of myself a bit better, because the pet depends on me. It's easier to neglect one's self than it is to neglect a tiny innocent life that isn't you. So far it's working, and I'm in a better place.
> 
> Apologies for not answering some comments from many many months ago; I will eventually respond, even if it's very tardily. I appreciate the support very, very much. My silence is a reflection of me, not you.
> 
> I hope everyone is doing well, wearing masks, etc. I got Covid back in March, and even if you get it relatively mildly like I did, it's a really _weird_ freaking disease. My first bout lasted about 5 weeks, which is 4 weeks longer than any regular cold I've ever had, and it periodically seems to flare up in 2.5 month increments (or it's weakened my immune system so I pick up other stuff I never did before every few months), although it's a bit less severe each time. So yeah. "Long Covid" is a thing. I can only image what hell someone who gets it worse than me goes through.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harper hearing-loss is discussed.

**Chapter Twelve**

“Menolly!” Jancis said when Menolly climbed up the ladder to the lounge. She was eating a meal with Lytol and Brekke. “AIVAS sent me a list of parts and dimensions—said we might know of another _ship?_ ” The Master Smith’s eyes danced in excitement.

“That’s right,” Menolly said, glancing at the food when her stomach growled.

Brekke saw her glance and said, “There’s more in the coldbox, but you’ll need to reheat it.”

As Menolly went off to follow Brekke’s suggestion, she said, “We were told of another ship like this one. The reason the Dendarii were so aggressive is that someone who looked like us attacked their fleet a few months back, unprovoked, and when we came out of the wormhole they thought the same thing was happening. I’m not entirely sure I buy that,” Menolly added. “But it’s the story we have now, and I’m sure the Harper will figure out more. Then they tried to grab Master Robinton for questioning because when they boarded the other ship, the pilot was already dead. But it was flying itself, despite the dead pilot. Ghost ships scare galactics just as much as they scare superstitious seaholders, I suppose,” she mused.

“Pardon?” Lytol interjected. “The other pilot was _dead?”_ he said. Memories, possibly of Robinton’s long convalescence, flickered over his face.

As the food-warmer hummed to itself, Menolly returned and leaned against a bulkhead. “They tried to install a Betan anti-gravity system, like the one we wanted. It broke in flight, and the results were horrific.”

Tuck, Swift, and Piemur, having put drums and instruments away below, emerged into the lounge, Piemur going over to eat a bite of Jancis’ food. She shooed him away.

“I’m heating something for the rest of us,” Menolly said chidingly.

“Yeah, but Jancis’ food tastes better,” Piemur grinned.

Brekke said, “Where’s Master Robinton?”

“With Lord Jaxom, I presume,” Menolly said, vanishing into the galley again when it beeped, before reappearing. She distributed the trays to Piemur and the others.

Lytol stopped chewing. “What.”

Menolly said, “Ruth and Jaxom popped out of _between_ , whisked the Harper away. Didn’t even say hello.”

“Jaxom didn’t come with us,“ Lytol said with a dire frown for a young man who, unfortunately for Lytol, was no longer his ward or subject to his discipline.

“Nope,” Menolly said, then sighed. “Lord Lytol?”

“Master Menolly?”

“We need to arrange another meeting with Admiral Naismith. Tomorrow, I think. In this ship if you can convince him—he deflected with me—or elsewhere in a neutral location.”

Tuck interjected, “This ship would be preferable. For anything else, we need to assume ears in the walls, and none of them are as friendly to us as AIVAS. If you’ll wait long enough for me to vet a secondary location, I’d appreciate it, Lord Lytol.”

Lytol gave the man a nod. Then he said, “Menolly, I’ll send Admiral Naismith another correspondence when we’re ready.” The tic in Lytol’s cheek jumped. Then he muttered to himself, _“Of course_ they showed up…what did I even _expect?”_

Menolly had always theorized Lytol knew more about what Jaxom got up to than Jaxom realized, and she suppressed a grin.

They were all well into their meals, with Piemur was giving a play-by-play of what happened from his perspective when Robinton re-appeared, with AIVAS, but sans Jaxom. “Hello, hello,” he said cheerily, looking no worse for the wear.

(Menolly did examine him for wear…but aside from the clear fatigue, he was looking better than ever, and caught her looking him over with a twinkle in his eye.)

“We ate without you,” Menolly said apologetically. “I wasn’t sure _when_ you’d be back.”

“I wasn’t sure _when_ I’d be back, either,” Robinton said, and collapsed into the lounge sofa with a huff, spanning his long arms across the back and settling an ankle on his knee. “The good news is that we’re officially diplomats now. _Minor_ ones, they’re not yet convinced we’re truly from a planet, but it is a step forward. Lytol, unless we want to continue living out of our ship, I think we should become Holders of that building. Lord Jaxom is already helping us furnish it so that we don’t appear to be paupers. Or, _will_ help us furnish it, according to my own, personal, future-past.”

The tic in Lytol’s cheek jumped again, but he seemed resigned. “Should I even ask how Jaxom became involved?”

Robinton spread his hands. “Ask me in the future. I certainly have no idea in the present. But I do not look gift allies in the mouth. To mix my metaphors _terribly.”_

Lytol grunted.

“Second—I believe, after having talked to AIVAS, that we need to aggressively pursue plans to try to create more ships like this one.”

“Why?” Lytol asked.

Master Jancis said, “That’s not as simple as it sounds, Harper.”

Robinton grimaced at her words, and said to Lytol, “I have a reason for it, but I will only be sharing it on a need-to-know basis. If someone decides to try to snatch one of us again, it’s best for all concerned that you truly do not _know_ anything. We are _distressingly_ vulnerable to fast-penta.”

Tuck sighed. “We’re back to being glows in tight-shut pots. I always _hated_ that part of need-to-know.”

Menolly glanced at him, and wondered if she should try to pry stories out of him. She had a suspicion it might be useful to access some of his wisdom—Tuck had been through things with Robinton that not even Sebell had experienced.

Robinton said, “Menolly, Tuck, Jancis—if the details with Admiral Naismith work out, you three will be traveling with him or his people to the scrapyard. Or simply traveling on your own, if all we get are coordinates. Master Jancis, we’ll need _you_ there to evaluate the age and working functionality of any parts we pull and purchase. AIVAS tells me shipping is very expensive, so we want to focus on parts that are difficult to manufacture, unwise to let others manufacture, and reasonable to ship.

Jancis exchanged glances with Piemur as they realized they were to be separated, with entire suns coming between them, but said, “Of course.”

Menolly was a bit surprised that she was being assigned to this. But after reflection, it made sense. If Jancis was there for her proficiency as a Smith, and Tuck as protection, then Menolly presumed Robinton was sending her as his right hand.

He must want what was out there terribly, to separate them like this so soon. But it comforted her that even out here in this crazy new universe, some things stayed the same. The Harper needed something done, so she was being sent to do it!

“Lastly, we _desperately_ need more people out here. We’re already splitting ourselves several ways. As capable as you all are, there’s only so much each individual can do. Therefore, I need to charter a jump ship back to Pern, and gather allies.”

Menolly hoped it was the Benden Weyrleaders. It hadn’t rested easily in her mind that he’d cut them out of all of this—although she completely understood why he had. Lessa could be… _unreasonable_ …on certain topics.

Lytol cleared his throat. “The Conclave won’t come around quickly. You could be gone for _months.”_

“Correct. But even before we convince _them,_ we simply need people _here._ Warm bodies with bright minds, a hunger to learn, and endless enthusiasm for impossible tasks! As soon as possible. Which means I can’t delay.”

Menolly said, “Why not take our ship? If we have an embassy, we have somewhere to stay.”

“The cargo hold is too small for dragons. Barring Ruth, of course.”

Brekke pointed out, “Won’t this expose where our world is located?”

Robinton sighed heavily. “Possibly. AIVAS and I want to try using an adaptor, so I pilot a ship in and out without revealing coordinates. Master Jancis, if AIVAS forwards you a blueprint, can you assist him in identifying a facility on Beta that can produce what we need? With as much secrecy as possible?”

Jancis nodded. “I can do that,” she said, even as a small sound on her com indicated AIVAS had already sent a blueprint.

“My deepest thanks.”

Lytol said, “Harper, I’d like to talk about some things.”

“Yes, yes. We should go do that,” and Robinton tiredly leveraged himself up again.

Piemur said, “Master, what do you want _me_ to do?”

_“Your_ task is to stay here and do whatever Lord Lytol tells you to do. However, in between that, I’d like you to set up the new embassy’s com links and security, so nobody, not Betans nor anyone else with fancy technology unknown to us, can listen in on our private conversations. Also, you should continue finding ways to sell our cargo. We are extremely short on galactic funds.”

Piemur didn’t look very excited at any of this, but dutifully nodded.

“Swift, you will assist Lord Lytol too, and in between his requests, help Piemur with anything he needs a second set of hands for, and after that, simply learn and scout the area. In your downtime,” and Robinton’s lips quirked, causing Menolly’s eyes to linger on them far too long, “You are responsible for studying galactic standards of security and enacting precautions. It’s your responsibility to make sure Lord Diplomat Lytol isn’t grabbed and drugged like I was.”

Swift frowned, but nodded.

“Brekke,” Robinton said. “If you are willing to commit the time, I would like you to investigate what it will take to get you, or anyone Pernese, a Betan Healer’s education. I realize it won’t be quick. I thought we might be able to hire a Betan Healer as a tutor, but AIVAS advised me that it doesn’t seem like that will be seen as adequate education in others’ eyes when it comes to medicine. They require a full apprenticeship to grant anyone a title of ‘doctor’. I will run the idea past Master Oldive when I return. I expect the Healer Hall to set their own standards for such education. Perhaps I will return with Healers to put through a galactic Healing apprenticeship. There are several, I know, that have become proficient with AIVAS’ databases on Ancient medicine, and they might benefit from furthering that knowledge to galactic medicine. Aside from that, investigating fast-penta seems a necessary project which you were already working on, although AIVAS thinks you should not have open discussions about it anywhere but here on this ship until we can be sure our new embassy is secured from spying.”

“Yes, Harper.”

Menolly said, “After Lytol, I’d like to speak to you as well, Master.” She suspected there were things he would want her to do that would be for her-ears only.

Robinton favored her with a quick smile. “Of course.”

Then he and Lytol adjourned to Lytol’s quarters downstairs.

#

Lytol’s quarters were sparse, like the rest of the quarters on the ship, but when they entered Robinton was surprised to see a tapestry partly unfolded across the bed, threads dangling from it where Lytol had been adding embroidery. He was so used to Lytol’s loom in his workroom that he hadn’t considered that the man would revert to hand-stitching to pass the time on a long trip across the stars. The tapestry made the bunk look warm and homey and reassuringly Pernese amongst everything else that was either Ancient or galactic.

Shutting the door behind them, Lytol took a seat on the bed while Robinton took the only remaining seat behind the desk, where a lesson on Barrayaran Russian glowed on the screen of the com.

Robinton said, “Regarding what I said earlier Lytol, I was thinking, it would be best if we kept everyone on a need-to-know basis with certain projects—“

“Is that so?” Lytol said, the tic in his scarred face jumping.

Robinton hesitated. Then he folded his hands across his lap and said, “I sense we are no longer talking about the same thing.”

The tic continued to twitch. Then Lytol said, flatly, “You’re sleeping with your student.”

Ah.

It had been clear the other day that firelizards were intolerable gossips, but for some reason it’d escaped his mind that the reason _Lytol_ hadn’t said anything before was because he didn’t _have_ a firelizard. “Who told you this?” Robinton asked mildly.

“Brekke pulled me aside. She thought I might not know.”

“I see.”

“Do you deny it?”

Sudden anxiety and fear that what he’d just found might be brutally ripped away from him, even though logically he knew Lytol had no say in the matter anyhow, suggested several foolish responses. Including impulsive denial.

Robinton battled all of that back, and said simply, “No.”

 _“Harper,”_ Lytol said, as woundedly as if _he’d_ somehow been betrayed.

Robinton sighed. It seemed he didn’t _need_ to make love hard, because Lytol was right here doing it for him. “Should I have lied to you? Would that make you feel better?”

“She’s younger than my _daughters_.”

Lytol’s daughters, whom the man hardly ever mentioned, had been slain by Fax. Blinking, Robinton suddenly wondered if, by way of Menolly’s proximity to Jaxom when Jaxom had visited the Hall for lessons, Lytol had silently taken responsibility for her and the others in Jaxom’s cohort of friends too, if only in his mind. As some sort of substitute daughter, much like Jaxom was a subsitute son.

Or (and here, Robinton’s old fears arose, painfully jealous in today’s light although he hadn’t thought himself jealous several turns back) had Lytol considered Menolly an appropriate potential wife for the then-unmarried Jaxom? An adopted daughter-in-law-that-could-have-been?

When Robinton didn’t immediately reply, Lytol added, “And she’s _married_. To your _other_ student! At a time when we _need_ allies!”

“That,” Robinton said. “Is a conversation I’m very overdue to have with Sebell. But,” and here Robinton’s tone turned frosty. “I assure you, you are _not_ invited to it.”

“Are you going to prey on Piemur too? Or perhaps Jancis? I wonder what Fandarel would say about that.”

Robinton felt a defensive genial smile soften his features, as a spark of utter rage flared into life, disciplined into invisibility by turns of Harper practice. “If I were the demon you’re imagining in your head, there’d be a swathe of casualties four decades long,” he said in his most reasonable tone. “My reputation is that of an incorrigible flirt, not a rake, or a predator.”

“It’s as easy to ruin two lives as a hundred,” Lytol said.

“So it is,” Robinton said. “Perhaps in your zeal to protect Menolly’s modesty, or reputation, or whatever, you should invite the woman here to speak to you herself? If you truly wanted to ‘protect’ her, why are you speaking to _me_ , the one you see as having done her wrong?”

“Because I thought _better_ of you! And I _want_ an explanation!”

_“Do_ you?” Robinton asked, raising an eyebrow.

Lytol’s tic twitched frantically.

Letting a bit of acerbity into his voice, Robinton said, “The explanation is already in front of you, if you’ve the wit to rub two brain-cells together.”

“I’m sure if I wait, you’ll rub them together for me,” Lytol said, stung.

Robinton bit back the retort that _he’d had to do that many a time—why not again?_

It would be satisfying to flaunt Lytol’s flaws before him. But unproductive. For one, if they made it through this argument, he’d lose a favorite drinking buddy.

Speaking of losing friends, he hoped deeply that Menolly was right about Sebell. It _hurt_ that Lytol would think the worst of him, rather than the best…it hurt that Lytol would accuse him of being a monster, rather than celebrate the unexpected love he’d found.

_I admit I’m no Harper, but this might actually be a time for melodramatic declarations of love,_ AIVAS advised. _I believe he expects whimsy from you, and isn’t getting it, which scares him._

_I don’t fancy Lytol at all,_ Robinton said, purposefully obtuse.

The AI audibly sighed in his mind.

“Where are you sending Zair?” Lytol demanded.

“Pardon?”

“I know that look. You’re speaking to a dragon. Or to a firelizard, in your case.”

“I’m speaking to neither dragon nor ‘lizard,” Robinton said mildly. “I’d rather not upset Menolly with your accusations, if you’re unwilling to start that fight with her yourself. I have a sneaking suspicion she might give you a black eye.”

Lytol was unimpressed.

Robinton sighed. “No, I am talking to AIVAS. He’s asking why I, the most Harpery of Harpers, am not jumping right on stage to perform the love ballad to end all love ballads to prove my love and devotion. He thinks I’m not being Harpery enough for you, and that it worries you unnecessarily.”

“I worded it differently,” AIVAS said through the room’s speakers. “But yes, that was the gist.”

_“You_ approve of this?” Lytol demanded of AIVAS, as it dawned on him that AIVAS witnessed _everything_ on the ship.

Robinton felt the ghost of an alien emotion from AIVAS, something he couldn’t quite interpret. AIVAS said, “It’s very common for people who go through deeply life-changing experiences to come away from it with a new appreciation for those who are closest to them. Menolly…did not take it well…when Robinton was undergoing the jump-set metamorphosis, although he was unconscious and did not witness the bereavement she and Sebell displayed during that half-turn. The fast-penta incident, however, recently made it clear that such feelings of love were mutual.”

The frown didn’t leave Lytol’s face, but the lines of it changed.

Robinton didn’t let an acerbic remark pass is lips, although he wanted to say, _Yes,_ NOW _you recall the fast-penta!_

AIVAS said, “In my archives, the most common cause-of-death for new jump pilots is listed as a _failure to thrive_.”

Before it could manifest, Robinton corrected a frown and a confused cocking of his head, and kept himself looking alert and neutral. Where was AIVAS going with this?

“’Failure to thrive’ is the most common post-installation complication. It is more common than jump pilot deaths from wormhole catastrophes, and more common than simple medical rejection of the implant. The Weyrs Search young people as Candidates because children and teenagers are more adaptable to life-altering change than adults are, such as the change of being initiated into a brotherhood and sisterhood of dragonriders.”

Lytol knew all about life changes and said nothing.

“Jump pilots are likewise ‘othered’ from ordinary humanity, and enter their own brotherhood. As jump pilots are selected partly on the basis of their great empathy, a sudden emotional disconnect from humanity can be disastrous. I am glad that Robinton is able to establish bonds to other human beings, and that those bonds are not comprised solely of superficial theater. Menolly seems to be thriving as well.”

Bracing his elbow on the arm of the chair, Robinton rubbed at his face tiredly. _“_ AIVAS _._ I was _not_ in danger of—“ _Staking himself out for thread,_ or some self-destructive feat that someone might label as ‘failure to thrive’. He’d been _fine_ , even before everything with Menolly. Even AIVAS had said he’d been adapting extraordinarily well!

AIVAS said, “You are making things difficult again, Harper. I also know more about this topic than you do.”

_You are perilously close to revealing to him the nature of our partnership._

_If he is at the core of your Diplomat Hall, as a Lord Diplomat, he will need to know._

“You can talk to AIVAS in your head,” Lytol abruptly said, his keen brown eyes searching Robinton’s face, proving AIVAS correct.

“Yes,” Robinton admitted.

Lytol’s expression became strange. “What is it like?” he asked softly.

Robinton wondered if an ex-rider could bond with an AI, or if the AI would deem him (or her, in the case of Brekke) too unstable. “It’s different than Zair,” Robinton said after a moment, putting aside his ire at Lytol for a brief instant to answer the question honestly. “Less…emotional.”

Another hint of an emotion from AIVAS, again not readily decipherable.

“Well you _think_ at me in coherent sentences, AIVAS,” Robinton pointed out. “With Zair I have to do plenty of work deciphering what he’s actually telling me in his deluge of emotions. I love him dearly, but he’s not always sensible.”

Lytol stared at him with inscrutable brown eyes. His tic still jumped. Then he said, “You’re a technological dragonrider?”

“I,” Robinton said carefully. “Am an Eridani-style jump pilot.”

“Did they…is there…Kitti Ping…”

Moreta help him, now Lytol _WAS_ rubbing two brain cells together. He wasn’t sure he liked it, mostly because after the accusations about Menolly (and even _Piemur_ , which revolted him still) Robinton didn’t _want_ to be charitable or generous with information. He wanted to nurture his grudge, indulge it a bit. “AIVAS?” Robinton said, passing the burden of being charitable to him.

AIVAS said, “I’ve suspected for a while that Kitti Ping was bonded to an AI that specialized in bioengineering, although I admit I never personally spoke to another AI once we began our journey to Pern. Even if she was not bonded, she was undoubtedly aware of how Eridani designed their jump pilots, and there’s enough similarities between the two systems of bonding that I feel confident suggesting she may have borrowed inspiration for the dragon/rider bond from the jump pilot corps. An empathic bonding between two alien minds is a part of both designs. However, _I_ am _not_ a dragon, and there are plenty of details that are different because of that fact. In practice the comparison only goes so far.”

Robinton expected this only to bias Lytol further in the matter of his relationship with Menolly, as they crossed sacred ground now, but oddly enough, it seemed to have the opposite effect.

“I always wondered _why…”_ Lytol said, before trailing off. “But perhaps the dragons knew. Perhaps they always knew…”

_Knew what?_ Robinton filed it away to probe at a different time.

Then Lytol said, abruptly, “I _will_ talk to Menolly.”

“As you _should_ have, from the start,” Robinton said mildly.

That got him an irascible look. Then Lytol said, “Why _her?_ You could have had practically _any_ woman on Pern! Why her?”

A dozen responses filled his head. Sly, winking ones _(Why yes, I could!)_ , witty downplaying ones. Pensive responses, gossipy responses. He only had to decide what _character_ he wanted to wear as a cloak to hide under right now.

He took a few moments to stamp all of that down. He dissembled right and left on every other topic…but he had no desire to do that when it came to his feelings on Menolly.

Maybe AIVAS was right and it was better to be honest, even if there was a bit of genuine melodrama. Eventually Robinton said, “If you’re lucky, I might write a song about it someday. And if you’re very _unlucky_ , Menolly and I might unwisely collaborate on a _duet_ , and you’ll see what horrors rose goggles can summon out of two otherwise-competent composers when they’re half-mad and ‘in love’. I hope you enjoy secondhand embarrassment, Lytol,” he said, a droll look coming over his face. “I have an _endless_ supply of googly eyes where Menolly is concerned and if you run across us at the wrong time, you might be forced to witness some of it!”

“It’s endearing,” AIVAS said.

“You’re a bit of a hostage to my thoughts, my dear AI, and I imagine you’ve come to that conclusion out of sheer self-preservation.” Robinton rose, and looked down at Lytol. “I’ve answered your questions, Lord Diplomat, intrusive as they were. Although I understand they were an attempt to protect Menolly. Which…I can’t entirely fault. I’m glad she has so many protectors.” She certainly hadn’t had enough at the hold of her birth. “Were my answers sufficient?”

Lytol had a series of emotions pass over his face. Worry, testiness, resignation. “Ask me again after I’ve talked to Master Menolly.”

Robinton inclined his head, and when Lytol didn’t move to stop him, took his leave.

#

“Menolly,” AIVAS said quietly through the galley speakers as Menolly put the remnants of her meal into the recycler. “A word in private, please.”

AIVAS had never once asked her to speak in private, and she frowned. “Here?”

“Your quarters, perhaps.”

The semi-formal clothes she’d worn to meet Admiral Naismith were getting itchy, Betan heat made her sweat in them, so Menolly murmured she was going to wash and change to the others, who were already dispersing on their own tasks, and made her way to her quarters and shut the door behind her. “Is something wrong?”

“Lord Lytol has learned about your new relationship with Master Robinton, and has appointed himself as protector of your virtue. Or has appointed himself protector to prevent Sebell from getting cuckolded.” A pause. “ _More_ cuckolded than he already is.”

“Oh for crying out loud!” Menolly said. “Has he cornered Robinton? Is _that_ where they went?”

“Yes.”

“Do I need to rescue Rob?”

“No, but he has aimed Lytol in your direction, to dispose of as you will. The Harper mentioned something about you throwing a good punch.”

Menolly let out a huff of a laugh. Punch a lordling _once_ and they kept expecting you to do it again! She’d feel bad if she punched Lytol, though. No matter how irritating his over-protective nosiness was. “I suppose I have no time to wash, then.”

“Wash now. It’ll let Lytol cool off while you’re inaccessible. Perhaps even think about what Robinton has said.”

AIVAS had a point, so—poking her head out of her quarters first to ensure Lytol wasn’t lurking—Menolly grabbed a fresh change of clothes, and ducked into the refreshment chamber. Under the influence of Betan gravity, it still wasn’t like the bathing pools of home, but it was better than what they dealt with in zero-gee.

“I thought he _knew,”_ Menolly vented, as hot water pelted her skin and firelizards fluttered around her feet, splashing in the soapy water.

“Brekke told him today. He means well, but misjudges the situation and holds himself as the only one that can challenge Robinton’s rank out here.”

Menolly sighed. And punched the shower cycle reset several times, rationalizing they were going to top off their water anyhow (Jancis had a maintenance schedule). Her aggravation with the situation lathered as readily as the soap.

When she was well and truly wrinkled, she wrapped her hair in a towel and returned to her quarters. Lytol gave her all of fifteen minutes before he was already tap-tapping at her door.

“Come in,” she said in frustration.

The door opened and Lytol stepped in—then seemed taken aback that she was in a bathing tunic with her hair wrapped up in a towel. Lazybones, perched near the door, shook himself off, and spattered Lytol with droplets of water.

He frowned at the brown, then said, “Master Menolly. Do you have a moment?”

It was such an irritating question that she couldn’t answer it without getting snippy, so she vaguely waved a hand at the only chair in the room.

Lytol didn’t sit, but hovered near it, folding his bony hands on the back. “Master Menolly, I’ve heard from Brekke that your Master has formed a relationship with you that might go beyond what is commonly accepted as ethical between a Master and a student. I find this concerning, and wanted to check that you are well.”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

Lytol hesitated. “Master Robinton wields a considerable amount of power—“

“I _know._ It took me a while to kick his legs out from under him—he has a great deal of discipline. He would have completely denied even what the fast-penta showed us if I’d so much as _blinked_ at a bad time and he interpreted it the wrong way.”

“Er…”

Good, she had him as off-foot as he had her. “Lord Lytol. I know you mean well, but the Mastersinger Merelan isn’t the first ship Robinton and I have been on together where this has raised its head. It’s simply the only time where Robinton hasn’t let the idea drown beneath the waves. If you mess this up for me and persuade Robinton that _your_ feelings on this matter _more_ than _mine_ , I will never, _ever_ forgive you.”

“Sebell—“

Heh. Sebell apparently had Lytol riding to his rescue! She’d have to tell him that, it’d make Sebell laugh and laugh and _laugh_. “You’re an ex-rider,” Menolly pointed out. “You can’t _possibly_ be unaware that people are more flexible than the Holds would have you believe.”

The tic in his cheek jumped.

“Sebell will be _thrilled_ , I assure you. Not that it’s _any_ of your business.”

Lytol opened his mouth, paused. Probably wisely, as Beauty had sat back on her haunches on the bed, and her eyes had an unmistakable tinge of red. Then he almost said something, and paused again.

Eventually he said, “All I want is for you to know you have options. If…you need shelter. I would not…have wanted any of my daughters to be in your position with a Craftmaster.”

She softened. “I know. But it’s my business, and Sebell’s, and Robinton’s of course. Not yours. And neither of them would ever harm me.”

He stood there a bit longer, as if he wanted to say something more, or was having trouble with coming up with a response, then left as abruptly as he’d arrived, to Menolly’s intense relief.

#

Miles typically liked to select third-party venues for negotiations that were small and intimate. They allowed Taura to loom more menacingly when needed, but also didn’t swallow him whole.

In this case, however, he’d made sure all the locations he suggested to the Pernese party were appropriately dragon-sized, and put an off-hand note in the communication asking them if the dragon had special dietary needs. _The blood of virgins, perhaps?_ Hard and expensive to find on Beta, to be sure, but his people were good and enjoyed new challenges. He stifled a giggle. Or maybe a few princesses? With Beta being so friendly to foreign diplomats, there were sure to be a few embassies that had a princess or two hidden away. “How about it, Bel? Would you like to lead a princess-acquisition team?”

The hermaphrodite cocked a hip against Miles’ desk, and said, “Real or fake? I couldn’t spot a real one if my life depended on it, but I can clock a fake one from a light year away. And why do we need princesses?”

“The _dragon!_ How are we to negotiate if the dragon suddenly decides it needs a snack?”

“You’re snack-sized, we’ll feed it you,” Thorne suggested wickedly.

“Yes, but then _you’ll_ have to negotiate with them,” Miles pointed out. “Which you’d hate.”

“I have full confidence that you’d be able to negotiate a contract successfully from the interior of a dragon’s stomach if anyone could,” Thorne said.

The words were joking, as was the tone and the sly look in the herm’s eyes, but Miles had the disconcerting conviction that Thorne kind of believed what they were saying.

He sighed. Somedays his reputation worked in his favor. Other days, he felt like the golden goose pooping out golden eggs so frequently everyone casually ate them in their breakfast omelets now. What would happen if he ever ran out? Get sent to the chopping block for soup?

_Clone the goose,_ he thought, but immediately shut thoughts of his clone-brother Mark out of his head. Mark had mostly vanished off the radar, although Miles was keeping tabs when he could.

“They don’t really eat princesses, do they?” Thorne asked after a bit of silence.

Miles opened his mouth to reply, but the Pernese response he’d been waiting an hour and a half for popped up on his com. The dead-eyed scarred man was the messenger again, said two of the four suggestions of venue would be acceptable, and that nobody had especial dietary requirements, and Lord Jaxom and the white dragon Ruth would _not_ be attending and wouldn’t need to be accommodated.

“Fiddlesticks,” Miles muttered, echoing some vid he’d been listening to with half an ear recently.

“…fiddlesticks as in the fern, or as in the musical instrument? I suppose either would be easier to feed to a dragon…”

“Fiddlesticks as in the dragon isn’t _coming_. So we won’t need to feed it fiddle _heads_. Or princesses, real or fake.”

“Ah. That’s too bad, I was considering getting myself a princess outfit. How do princesses dress on Barrayar? And how well do they get on with Lords?”

Miles didn’t feel like flirting and wove away Bel’s attempt at it. “I want to see that dragon up close. But how do you _locate_ something that can _teleport_?”

Bel, who had been willing to be skeptical of Quinn’s story about teleporting “firelizards” wasn’t as eager to call Miles a liar, especially not when Taura, Quinn, _and_ Miles agreed that the dragon had teleported. They still frowned at the idea, though.

Miles played the response again, trying to intuit information out of the video that wasn’t there, and failing. Clearly, free food wasn’t a strong enough invitation for the dragon _or_ the lord. And he suspected Illyan wouldn’t be too impressed if he blithely bartered the Dendarii’s services for the mere _chance_ to attend a Dragon Petting Zoo, so he couldn’t up the allure of his offer just yet. 

_Although_ , given they were _teleporting_ dragons, perhaps he could pass it off as intelligence-gathering. Give ImpSec a really _through_ report on what it felt like to touch a dragon.

He snorted to himself and his whimsies, and forwarded the message to Thorne. “They’ve settled on these two being acceptable. Let’s book both.”

#

Menolly looked at the dose of fast-penta she held in her hand, and frowned.

Brekke said, “If it makes you uncomfortable, we could switch places. I take the drug, and you run the test. You’ve already been on the other side of it, after all.”

“I’m assigned to go with Jancis and Tuck. If the Harper’s negotiations are successful, we might leave immediately. I need to _know_ what would happen to me if I’m given it.”

“The same could be said of Tuck and Jancis.”

“Yes, but I won’t ask them to do anything I won’t, and I’m the Harper’s voice on this assignment, so—“ she jammed the dispenser into the meat of her thigh.

It didn’t really _hurt_ , the anticipation had been worse than the poke, and then—

She felt _relaxed_. Like the world was melting away, like her innumerable _worries_ were melting away.

It was simply her, and her firelizards.

Beauty landed on her leg and examined what she’d done to herself, but then agreed. _Yes_. It was them. And Beauty had an itch, at the base of her wing. Scratch it.

Menolly did.

Lazybones had an itch too, but he couldn’t be arsed to get up from where he was lounging on the console in the lounge. Menolly obediently got up and scratched him, and he loved it, and she smiled.

Then, her other firelizards began asking her to do things. Scratch this. Play with me! Food? At first the requests were reasonable and spaced out, but then they seemed to pick up on how obliging she was being, and rushed to get something from her before she shoo’d them away.

The happiness Menolly got from tending to her friends swiftly became sad, deeply deeply _sad_ that she _couldn’t_ do everything they wanted, there wasn’t _time,_ there was only one of her and so many of them—

And Beauty, realizing the leader of their faire was suddenly without her usual strong will let out an earsplitting shriek and suddenly the requests ceased.

“Menolly?” A touch on her shoulder, where Menolly was in the galley watching a bowl of defrosted meat spin in its device, a meal for her firelizards that was several hours too early. “Did you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Menolly said.

“Did you hear me before?”

“No.”

“What are you doing?”

“They want food. They’re not hungry, they just are being greedy.” But Menolly didn’t stop watching the defrosting bowl rotate. Beauty had chased the others away, but _she_ wanted food, too.

“Are they giving you orders?”

“They just _want_ , and I can provide, so I’m trying—but there’s so many of them, Brekke! If Beauty hadn’t chased them off—“ Sudden fear iced her heart. Or tried to. It was like she felt the fear, but it was caught in some soggy weightless yet relentless tide, trying to sweep her…somewhere…while numbing the feeling. “What if they go away forever? I don’t want that. But I can’t do _everything_ , I don’t have ten arms, I don’t—“

“You don’t have to. Come back out here.”

And Menolly simply left the spinning bowl in the warming machine behind, and followed Brekke back into the lounge.

As she sat, Menolly spotted a list that Jancis had on the com, a list of parts. “What if we find another AIVAS out there? But he’s insane? AIVAS is so nice, and he’s a part of Robinton now, but the other pilot died, and if dragonriders were based on jump pilot pairs, what if the other AIVAS is all broken and strange—“

A part of Menolly realized distantly she was talking to Brekke, and shouldn’t be saying these things to _Brekke_ of all people, but she couldn’t make herself stop, she was too worried about meeting some AIVAS that wasn’t benevolent but evil.

“Or what if he’s not troubled, what if he just doesn’t want to help us. Or what if the Dendarii find him first and take him, and I just can’t stop it. We’ve all learned how to use stunners, but we’re all apprentices at it, we’ve not masters. Now they know my firelizards exist, what if they shoot them when they come out of _between_? Dragons get hurt during threadfall, and they’re much smarter than firelizards! Do you think using mentasynth they could make humans that are smarter than humans? Post-humans?”

AIVAS said, “According to some, _you_ are post-human, Menolly. Nearly all Pernese have been enhanced; the trait came with a few of the original colonists and was strongly selected for by the weyrs going on Search and spreading their seed.”

“I don’t feel special,” Menolly said. Fear struck her, drove her words even as the emotion seemed distant and far away. “Was I supposed to be special, and I’m not doing it right?”

Brekke said a rare hint of anger in her tone, “AIVAS, why would you say that to her while she’s drugged and suggestable?”

Menolly said, “He’s been acting very human ever since he chose Robinton and they woke up. He goes barefoot to touch things.”

AIVAS said to Brekke, “She will remember this after the effect wears off. Barrayarans have a strong cultural taboo against mutations, according to the cultural databases we got from Beta. Mentasynth will probably be considered a mutation. It may be important for everyone to remember not to talk about mentasynth enhancement casually.”

“I’m a mutant,” Menolly announced.

“By that standard, I’m a mutant too,” Brekke said. “We’re both mentasynth-enhanced.”

“Why can’t I hear you?” Menolly asked. “I thought you’d _drown_ me in sadness.” She thought it’d be like the night she’d been awoken at the Harper Hall by Brekke’s scream when F’nor and Canth had gone _between_ —without a space suit or any knowledge that they should make one—to the Red Star.

A small smile. “I learned some tricks from Wirenth, and Lessa, and the dragons. I’m keeping you out like I keep them out sometimes, and it seems to work.”

Something caught Menolly’s eye, a motion from the ladder upstairs, and she turned.

“You could have _warned_ me that you were doing this,” a strained voice said to them as Lytol climbed up into the lounge. “Or done it somewhere else!”

“It’s a small ship,” Brekke said. “I tried to distance us as much I could. But I suppose the mind doesn’t care much about walls.”

Menolly was looking at Lytol when Brekke said this, and suddenly—

—suddenly, she _was_ Lytol. Because there was no distance between them, no distance that physically mattered, and now she had no _walls_ , the fast-penta had vanished them, turned them transparent like glass!

And now she was a Lytol who had been interrupted in his study of Barrayaran Russian by the very first _mind_ he’d heard ever since Larth abandoned him to live by himself all alone.

At least he could tell she wasn’t Larth. She was a female mind, not like Larth at _all_ , but some sort of queen-like human with the ghosts of firelizards flitting all around, faintly sensed by him, and he—

—He wanted to be left _alone_ —

(No he _didn’t._ Hearing her awoke old memories, and hearing her drew him like an insect to a glowpot, and a part of him was deeply appalled that suddenly she was _all around him_ now, and had _whatever she was up to with Robinton_ started like this? Was _he_ going to get drawn into some odd culmination of—he wanted simple platonic _companionship_ , not—)

Then Robinton was there, and AIVAS too, behind Lytol, and Robinton gripped Lytol’s arm (Menolly felt it), and Menolly _felt_ the sympathy that drove him (and so did Lytol; buffeted by a psychic sense of _Robinton_ he’d never had before, Lytol clung to Menolly’s mind in a chaotic mix of hopes and fears and pain and loneliness.)

Robinton said, “Lytol! We love you Lytol, but your other fears are baseless. Although, Brekke, I’d also have appreciated advanced warning. Menolly is, ah—”

And he didn’t put it into words, but she heard it anyway. She was a formidable _presence._ He _felt_ her, and somehow, even though he was not under the effects of the drug, her presence like this made him extra-sensitive too, so that he was attuned with the firelizards, and could sense the fainter unaware presences elsewhere in the ship of Tuck, Jancis, Piemur, and Swift.

Only Brekke, with the trick she’d picked up in the weyr, was a silent cipher.

Menolly even knew AIVAS was there—she _felt_ him. He was _definitely_ in the same body as Robinton. Not in the ship, not in the androgynoid, regardless of where he “threw” his voice. And it was a _partnership_ , not one mind dominating the other, but both existing, Robinton thinking his Robinton-thoughts, and AIVAS…

…he _existed_ and it was _different_ from humans just like a firelizard was different, but like Lytol, he was lonely too, it just existed in a part of him he couldn’t access. His existence had changed as much as Robinton’s had, but there were no other AIs to talk to, and he was programmed to be unable to take actions that might put too much burden on Robinton—

Menolly expected someone—Robinton at least, maybe AIVAS himself, perhaps even Lytol or Brekke to comment on some of what she felt from AIVAS—but she had the sudden understanding that she’d accessed something that was read-only, and she couldn’t broadcast it, only hear it. Some quirk of Eridani AI programming that was aware mentasynth existed, and had been designed to cope with it. It couldn’t stop her from sensing the things that leaked from AI to human along an organic, electro-chemical pathway, but it _could_ inhibit transference, somehow.

And this unaware part of AIVAS spoke to her. Its voice was mechanical, nanoscale technology embedded in AIVAS and Robinton creating subliminal telepathic signals like a block-letter was stamped into paper to create a word. There was no _sapience_ behind it, only a message left by someone sapient. _Suggestion-instruction: Visit a mind-ship for candidate testing._

_(This instruction is out-of-date by 4.239 centuries Earth-standard. Caution is advised when following out-of-date subliminal correspondence.)_

“Menolly—“

“Menolly?”

“Menolly,” Robinton said, and took her by the shoulders. “Can you hear us?”

“She went completely silent,” Brekke said. “Menolly, can you still hear us?”

“I can. What’s a mind-ship?” she asked.

Brekke looked at Robinton, who looked at Lytol and AIVAS, and shrugged.

AIVAS said, “I’m not sure. Where did you hear that term?”

Menolly stared at him guilelessly. Or rather, him-as-Robinton, since the chassis _wasn’t_ him, so she ignored it. “Why, from you. You told me to visit a mind-ship for candidate testing.”

A pause. AIVAS said, “I did not. The last thing I told you was that Pernese are mentasynth-enhanced.”

“Okay,” Menolly said obediently. And then, as Lytol (who’d dampened like all the others when she’d sensed AIVAS) again became a raw, hurting _person_ next to her again as the dampening wore off, she turned and put her arms around him, and put the concern and love she felt for him in it, and added the love she knew Jaxom felt for him, and his mouth went, “No, no, no” but his words were lies, they arose from him being conflicted, trying to put on the front of a disciplined man that needed nothing from anyone. The care she projected on him felt to him like numbweed on a wound that’d been bare and hurting and untended to for far too long.

He really didn’t know what to do with himself when that hole inside wasn’t hurting, and fell to his knees with his face in his hands, reluctant to open himself to _anything_ because they were all in such terrible danger out here, and he could lose any _one_ of them. If you didn’t become attached to anyone, you couldn’t lose them because they were never yours to begin with. And you filled the hole with _duty_ , so that you didn’t become a complete monster by cutting yourself off from humanity. Carrying out the actions of a dutiful man made you a good man in the eyes of others, and it did not matter if you felt nothing. It was the only way not to be a soulless-eyed husk. And Larth had left him behind, which meant he _had_ to find a reason for it, and do _something_. Larth wouldn’t have left him behind if there hadn’t been a purpose to it…and a dragonrider’s purpose was to serve the people of Pern and protect them…

Menolly kept hugging him and said, “Aren’t _you_ a person of Pern?”

And at the same time, Robinton, who was a presence beside them also said, “I’ve never heard a greater lie in my life, Lytol! Why are you going on about not caring about anything? I’ve _seen_ you care, man! You drank yourself stupid when Jaxom Impressed. A man who doesn’t _care_ has no need to numb himself. You harried the Healers during my convalescence! To make sure a comatose man who couldn’t feel a thing was still comfortable. And you kept me company, the first night I awoke. I daresay that wasn’t out of duty, but friendship. Why have you concocted this ridiculous lie that you don’t _care_ about anyone and only do things out of duty? Why have you made up this lie that you can never depend on anyone, or need them?”

The questions where rhetorical; everyone knew _why_.

“I’ll give you one of Beauty’s next clutch,” Menolly said to Lytol. “Someone who will never outgrow you like Jaxom did, or leave you.”

“No, no, no. I don’t want a bloody firelizard!” Lytol’s mouth said. “Nothing is _fixed_ by simply throwing firelizards at it, girl!” _It won’t bring Larth back._

But she felt from him that in his heart, he simply feared he would love a firelizard too much, and it would get sick with some mysterious firelizard disease, or go _between_ to bad coordinates, or simply leave him because he was empty inside and firelizards could leave whenever they wanted, as proven by a few people he’d known during his tenure as Lord Warder of Ruatha who ominously could never hold onto a firelizard for more than the turn it took for them to reach adolescence.

Kneeling beside them, a hand on Lytol’s back, Robinton said, “You’ve had to bear more grief than any one man should ever be asked to bear. It’s no shame to feel that grief, or to mourn. But what will you tell Larth when you’re reunited with him in the great Halls beyond? If he asks you for stories of what you’ve done? Or about the people you met? Will you tell him that you wasted the life he wanted you to have by pushing everyone who cared about you away? Will you tell him that you actually became the empty husk you think you are? Friendless and alone? I’ve never known a dragon who would want such a thing for their rider.”

“What do _you_ know about dragons?” Lytol grated.

“I know that even the _worst_ of them is _better_ than us. The most miserable dragonriders I’ve ever have had the misfortunate to meet still had dragons that still found something lovable and admirable in their rider. They had dragons that only wanted the very best for them. I’ve never once heard of a dragon completely isolating their rider from friendships and other people, or demanding that they be their only friend. It’s a wisdom beyond what the ordinary man or woman has, the pure selfless way a dragon loves. And I know the way Zair loves me. It’s not as complicated, as Zair is not a terribly complicated person, but it’s in the same vein. Thus, I can’t conceive that Larth would want you to suffer in some dark homage to his memory.”

_It’s not only him that’s left me._

“I know,” Robinton said. “But I can’t imagine, either, that your taste in women is so poor that you’d espouse one who would be content that you were never happy again after she was gone. Having met Jaxom, who is your son in all but name, I can’t conceive your daughters would want this for you, either.”

“I don’t want this for you,” Menolly said, in tongue and mind. Lytol was often a disconcerting man, and his intrusion into her and Robinton’s personal business intolerable, but he did it for the right reasons and she forgave him and certainly didn’t want to feel him in this sort of pain. He’d done right by Jaxom—except the part where Jaxom wasn’t entirely sure if Lytol liked him as a _person_ —and he’d done right for Ruatha Hold, and for Landing, and he’d done so much for Robinton when neither Menolly nor Sebell had been able to be by his side.

She didn’t want him to hurt, and she wanted him to just _accept_ them all as real friends that could ease the ache, and let them give back to him what he gave to others…

And somehow her raw, unfiltered thoughts (he’d _seen_ in her mind that there were times when his manner had frightened her in the past, and that his scarred face was jarring, he’d seen her thoughts about Jaxom) wore through his inner turmoil and he just sagged forward, his forehead on her shoulder, as Robinton knelt beside him and rubbed his back. And for a moment, Lytol let himself live in the present, instead of the past, bracketed by friends who cared for him even though he was imperfect.

Menolly could feel him working through thoughts that had been long-ignored, and couldn’t help but silently point out where she thought he was wrong in what he thought, or right. This drug gave her no filter, none at all, and Lytol got her unvarnished, unfiltered opinion on _everything._ After a few pauses, Robinton, who could also hear her and Lytol, occasionally emphasized what she was saying in agreement.

Eventually Lytol looked up, and at Brekke, his face haggard. “How many tests of this fast-penta will you do?”

Brekke hesitated.

Menolly said, “Jancis and Tuck, after me. I did it first because I can’t ask them to do something I haven’t done. That’s not something a good leader does, and—”

He cut her off, mostly because he had to to get a word in. “I can’t—“ he didn’t _want_ to drown in more people. Not Jancis, not Tuck. Not even people who cared for him.

Menolly said, “If you go look at the places Admiral Naismith wants to meet us, you’ll be far away. But you should take Swift and Piemur, since Tuck has to stay here. To protect yourself. They’ll protect you physically, and being far away from me will protect you from me.” She felt sudden dismay. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Lytol. I didn’t know what would happen, I didn’t—“

Robinton said, cutting her laments off, “Menolly, what’s your opinion on Brust’s sonatas in E minor?”

The Harper asking for her opinion on music immediately made her forget her previous line of thought. “They’re over-hyped drivel!” she said.

“Can you support that opinion?” he asked her curiously.

Sure she could, but she _wanted_ to rant. “I have ears! It’s a terrible, terrible piece—“

“I rather like the chorus,” Robinton offered.

“Well. Everyone has flaws, even you,” Menolly said.

A little _snrk_ came from Lytol.

“You know, hearing acuity decreases with age,” Menolly went on blithely. A part of her suggested maybe she should stop talking, the other part simply didn’t care. “Half the senior Masters are nigh-deaf—“

“AIVAS,” Robinton said. “How acute is my hearing?”

AIVAS said, “For your genetic profile, you have about eighty-two percent of your maximum acuity in your right ear, and seventy-one in your left ear. Mostly related to the hairs that detect sound not being as numerous as they should be due to damage, likely due to your profession.”

“Ha,” Menolly said. “My ears are hairier than yours!”

Lytol stifled another somewhat hysterical laugh.

Robinton said, his blue eyes merry, “Well, I think your ear-hairs are _lovely_ , Menolly. Why don’t you go sit down so Brekke can complete her tests with you?”

Menolly sat on the ground. “Okay.”

“I mean, in the chair.”

Menolly didn’t completely understand why they didn’t just _tell_ her what they wanted—their minds and words didn’t always agree which was terribly confusing, like the firelizards all telling her different things was confusing, but eventually after a few different commands, she was sitting across from Brekke, while Robinton and Lytol went back down to the lower level. Lytol had an actual smile on his face as he left, the first she’d ever seen.

“Have you ever seen Lytol smile before, Brekke?” Menolly asked.

Brekke smiled herself. “No. But I think you two were right—fast-penta has as much effect on the ones _not_ taking it as the ones that do!”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Menolly knows something you don't.

**Chapter Thirteen**

“Harper,” AIVAS said some time later, after Lytol had pulled himself together and fled the ship to get away from the benevolent invasion of his mind by Menolly.

Robinton, who was poring over some legal documents concerning the privileges of diplomats in his class on Beta Colony, paused. “Yes?”

“Do you know what Menolly meant when she said ‘I’ told her to visit a mind-ship for candidate testing?”

“Er, no. But given she was under fast-penta, she must have believed it was true.”

Silence.

“AIVAS?” Robinton eventually queried.

“Have I ever spoken to you, then denied that I did so?” AIVAS asked.

“No.”

An image sprang up in Robinton’s mind’s eye, a series of videos of the lounge, offered for his examination. They played that scene back—Menolly becoming very still, her eyes unfocused, unresponsive to speech despite the fast-penta in her system. Then her responding again, and being completely earnest when she said AIVAS had spoken to her.

“Did you hear me speak to her during that time?” AIVAS asked. “…telepathically, perhaps?”

Sitting back in his chair, and absently savoring that it _did_ tilt back now, Robinton absently rocked and said, “No. I thought you didn’t benefit from any telepathic aspect to mentasynth?”

“I’m not supposed to, no.” A pause. 

Robinton said, “You think Menolly heard something telepathically from you?”

“All the evidence points to it—except for the part where I do not remember saying anything to her.”

Robinton could tell that Menolly was no longer affected by fast-penta, as her half-zany, half-warm presence in his head had departed a half-hour ago. He stood up, and poked his head out the door of his room. “Menolly, are you still being tested?”

Menolly, who was standing next to Tuck, said, “No. But Brekke is about to test Tuck—“

“AIVAS and I have a couple of questions for you, if Brekke doesn’t need you for that.”

The woman glanced at each other, Brekke shook her head, and Menolly slipped into his office, and he shut the door behind her.

Before he seated himself, Robinton stole a moment to kiss one of her ears. “And how is my Lady of Ear-Hairs feeling?”

Menolly thinned her lips in fond exasperation. “I’m not going to live that down, am I?”

“What is there to live down? Perhaps I’ll pen a sonnet, letting all and sundry know how thick and lush your ear-hair is in comparison to my weakened, balding tufts!” and he gave her a grin that he wasn’t entirely certain _wasn’t_ going to get him slugged.

“You know, _you_ like Brust’s sonatas in E minor,” she said.

“The chorus. I like the _chorus._ It’s not necessarily _clever_ , but it has a certain— _”_ he wafted a hand around illustratively.

She talked right over him. “So if I hear people going on about my ear-hair, I’m just going to let Sebell know _that little fact_ about you _._ I mean, _it’s not like you’d have anything to live down,_ right?”

Robinton chortled. “Then I will simply bring up several highly inconvenient facts about _him_ , my dear. We will _all_ have to draw knives and cry insult! A true _triangular_ tragedy.”

(And Faranth save him, he hoped that clever alliteration was truly just a jest. The matter of Sebell still concerned him.)

Menolly snorted and sunk down into the chair on the other side of his desk, and pillowed her head on her arms, peering up at him through her lashes and hair. He wondered if she knew how winsome and dear that made her look.

She said, “You said AIVAS has questions for me?”

AIVAS said, “Yes. You said someone you thought was me told you to visit a mind-ship for candidate testing. Why did you think this was me?”

Menolly frowned. “Because it _was_ you.” She cocked her head. “If it wasn’t—who?”

Clearing his throat, Robinton said, “AIVAS doesn’t remember speaking. And his memory is excellent.”

AIVAS said, “Can you elaborate on what you felt? If you _knew_ it was me, was there something in particular that contributed to your assessment? The more precise you can be, the more it will help me unwind this mystery.”

Menolly’s eyes unfocused, and she reached out and fiddle with one of his pens. He had the urge to take the pen away and replace it with his fingers—but that’d simply get them all distracted, wouldn’t it? Funny how a simple little touch could do such a thing, particularly in the honeymoon phase of a new relationship…

Eventually she said, “You know, it’s almost as if it was you-but-not-you, AIVAS. Like an audio recording. Or a book. Someone intelligent put the message there. I sensed _you_ , AIVAS. When I heard the recording. But I think it _was_ a recording. Like it was stamped on you? Or stored in you? But not actually alive and thinking. It reminds me of when Jancis opened a wristcom and there were little numbers printed on the pieces inside. I asked what they were for, and she said they had no effect on what the wristcom did, they were for people outside of it, making repairs. So they could get the right parts.”

_AIVAS?_ Robinton said silently.

AIVAS didn’t respond, but Robinton had the sense he was thinking.

Then Menolly added, “There was also a warning that the orders were out of date by four centuries, and to be cautious with subliminal correspondence that old.”

AIVAS said, “Four centuries? Not several millennia?”

“It was slightly more than four centuries. Not millennia. Even if we were converting from galactic to Pernese.”

“Does that surprise you, AIVAS?” Robinton asked when AIVAS didn’t immediately say anything.

“It does. It suggests that this thing Menolly encountered has updated. Pernese history is over two thousand turns long. If I’d been carrying something with a chronological date-stamp, it should have been out of date by the same amount. However, in the Nexus, the oldest colonies aren’t much older than a couple of hundred years.” AIVAS hesitated. “It could be as simple as the message having some input from my own time-variables. I carry two systems in me—one tracking my personal time, the other tracking galactic time, as taken from star-measurements. If the message is able to access the galactic time variable, it could be something as small and simple and innocent as that. But if not, it could also mean I somehow downloaded something that I was not aware of downloading. And that troubles me. I have not found evidence of other strong AIs so far. But if I have downloaded something that could update me without my knowing it—that might suggest they are hidden, but there. And have made use of several centuries’ worth of progress that I myself have not had access to, being asleep on Pern for so long.”

Leaning back in his chair, Robinton rocked himself back and forth some more as he thought. “AIVAS—is this also proof that telepathy can be replicated via machine?”

“Technically, you are a machine too. Just an organic one,” AIVAS pointed out.

It wasn’t like AIVAS to be unnecessarily pedantic. It came across as avoidant—extremely unusual when AIVAS was always willing to go on about any topic in depth for any amount of time…the most patient teacher he’d ever known. Robinton pulled at his lip pensively.

AIVAS said, “Menolly—how was your experience with this different than talking to someone else telepathically?”

“I didn’t really _talk_ to it,” she said. “It muted everything else, and gave me the message. Like an audio recording in my ear—replicated speech.”

“Did it feel like Robinton at all? Or any human or firelizard?” AIVAS asked.

She shook her head. “It felt like you. Except with no awareness or thoughts. _You_ have emotions—even if I can’t decipher them.”

Robinton said, “Perhaps it’s a way of Searching for candidates?”

“That still leaves the question of why the date warning was in centuries instead of millennia,” AIVAS said. “All of my _known_ programming predates Pern’s colonization.”

“Hmm,” Robinton said.

“Harper—are _you_ able to access this thing Menolly encountered in me?”

Robinton blinked. “I don’t know. I suppose I should try. Er…Menolly, how _did_ you encounter it?”

“Well…” Her eyes darted around as she thought. “I could hear AIVAS’ mind. A little like a firelizard, smart but different. Then the message just went off. As if I got too close. I thought he had noticed me, like a firelizard might if I’m listening to them. But if he didn’t, maybe it was another trigger. I don’t know what.”

Focusing inward, Robinton tried to search for any of that. But he heard nothing. Not a hint of AIVAS’ thoughts or emotions, or of anything else. 

It was possible fast-penta might be needed again. Unless Tuck or Jancis—

AIVAS said, _Brekke reports Jancis manifested nothing like what you or Menolly did under fast-penta. Jancis became more sensitive to the commands and whims of her firelizards, as Menolly did, and become a suggestible truth-teller, but she didn’t display the extreme effects you and Menolly did. Tuck is undergoing the test and seems to trend the same way thus far._

As Robinton was contemplating this, something suddenly chimed in his consciousness, and a message flashed in his eyes, telling him that Lytol was calling him. It was a bit of a relief; he’d been nervous about Lytol running about out there on Beta without anyone but Swift watching his back. At the same time, he could appreciate how Lytol might not have wanted _anyone_ around after too much involuntary sharing.

_Lytol insists on being directly linked to you,_ AIVAS said.

Robinton watched the image blink and chime silently in his head, and eventually said, _Er, how do I activate it?_

AIVAS showed him how, and Robinton raised a finger to Menolly. “Lytol is calling me.” He activated the link, and stood, stretching his long limbs. “Lytol?” he said, pacing around the room.

“We’ve selected the locale of the meeting with Admiral Naismith. It’s a bit far, you may want to get going now. Unless you intend to be fashionably late.”

Robinton queried the time, and this was true. “Yes, right, we should get going. Menolly—ask Brekke if Tuck will be in a state to accompany us. Jancis and Brekke will stay behind with the ship.”

Nodding, Menolly vanished.

“We’re on our way,” Robinton told Lytol. “Did you bring anything for the Admiral?”

“Some klah. The good wine is hiding in _your_ quarters.”

“Ah,” Robinton said. “I’ll bring the Benden, then.”

#

Firelizards danced.

“Er, I’m afraid we don’t allow…animals…inside the hotel,” the young man at the reception desk said, as his eyes tracked the flights of the bright firelizards wheeling curiously about the underground atrium.

“How do you propose to stop them?” Robinton asked curiously. “You could become quite wealthy on my planet if you’re able to devise a way to keep them out of certain areas that doesn’t harm anyone. They teleport, you know. Locks can’t hold them.”

Lytol approached from the side, reading a flimsy. “This says you allow felines and canines,” he said to the young man.

“Cats and dogs,” Robinton clarified.

Lytol said, “Firelizards do not leave messes on the floor, and they sleep through the night—“

“—not that we’ll be here that long,” Robinton murmured.

“—they don’t smell, they don’t yowl, howl, or bark, and they won’t hurt a human unless that human has shown them harm first.”

In Robinton’s ear, Menolly said, “I’m giving Lytol something from Beauty’s next clutch. He sounds ready.”

Robinton squeezed her hand for a moment, then let go.

Before the male receptionist could respond, his partner, a herm who was reading their comconsole, nudged him and showed him something. Then they said, “Are you the same diplomat who gave a concert in the park?”

_You might not be aware,_ AIVAS said softly in his head. _But “A Concert In The Park” is now a meme._

_What’s a meme?_

_A cultural in-joke. In this recently-spawned context, it means causing a disruptive ruckus using a ridiculous item for a musical prop. Like pots and pans. Another one that’s formed is: SUDDENLY—DRAGONS!_

_I’m not sure I get it,_ Robinton said. _Dragons are always sudden. They travel_ between _._

_I’ll explain to you later._

Yes, and he should probably respond to the poor receptionist. Clearing his throat, Robinton said, “Why yes, I am that diplomat. I’m afraid I have another appointment to get to, but if you’d like, afterwards I’d be happy to perform a song or two—“

“No,” they said quickly in nervous unison. Then, “Thank you for offering, Diplomat,” from the young man.

Robinton was taken aback. Nobody in his life had ever _refused_ his music so quickly! And he had to admit, it _hurt_ a bit, even if it was obvious in hindsight why they might feel that way. “Well. If you give us our keycards, we’ll be on our way to where we’re expected, along with the firelizards, and no unfortunate bouts of singing will molest your ears.” Robinton smiled kindly, doing his best to seem completely benevolent.

But it was still _kind of_ a threat. Let us go on our way, or else…firelizards and singing. And he saw they were smart enough to know that.

After some whispering and hands to their ears as their invisible superiors gave them orders, they did just that, handing out keycards to the entire party, and the matter of the firelizards seemed completely forgotten.

Following AIVAS’s directions to a mechanical lift, Robinton studied himself and the others in its mirrored doors. He still loathed his short hair, but he was otherwise presentable, with the rank knot of Masterdiplomat wound neatly around his shoulder, and his too-warm tunic not yet showing perspiration stains from the jaunt down overheated Betan streets. Meeting people’s eyes, he gave a quick grin, and proclaimed, “Let us descend!”

#

The meeting room his Dendarii had booked was the type where neither party was allowed to enter until both groups were present, and a complete set of counter-coded keycards was put through a machine near the door. It was still possible to bug or trap the room, of course—in fact, with teleporting firelizards, Miles assumed it’d actually be _easier_ for the Pernese to do it than the Dendarii, although he was quite sure his people could have managed it as well with enough lead-time—but it would be more involved than any but the most determined or well-prepared individuals to attempt.

Miles wanted to pace around the foyer outside the suite, but nervous pacing wouldn’t give the right image, so he sat back in a chair with his feet on an ottoman—they would have dangled otherwise, the chairs were unfortunately tall—and scanned through some of the reports his people had given him about the possible identities of the Pernese. One of them confirmed, via accent analysis and statistical linguistics, that Pern likely had significant Irish and Hindi populations amongst its original colonists, which suggested Pern culture might still harbor various customs and taboos from those Old Earth cultures. For example, the report urgently suggested it might be unwise to show the soles of his feet to his guests, as it might be considered especially disrespectful.

Alas, just as he was frowning over these conjectures, the Pernese party arrived, with Master Robinton at its front…

…and the soles of Miles’ feet on the ottoman were pointed directly at him.

Hoping he hadn’t accidentally committed a huge faux pas, Miles jumped up before anything could be remarked upon, smiled, and said in his Betan drawl, “Masterdiplomat Robinton, Lord Diplomat Lytol—welcome!” His eyes darted over the group. The Pernese had six people with them today. Robinton and Lytol, as Diplomats. Master Tuck and Journeyman Swift, as…armsmen? Their watchful stances made their functions clear, he simply didn’t know what the Pernese might call that function. Master Menolly was there too, as was the herm called AIVAS in their prosthetic body that, regardless of the custom face AIVAS sported, was undoubtedly a sexbot.

Miles had Thorne, Quinn, and Taura with him, which put them at a disadvantage in numbers, four to the Pernese’s six. Especially if you counted the numerous firelizards swooping into the room, landing on furniture. One landed near Quinn, cat-like in its desire to sit right next to someone who clearly loathed it, while Miles, who wanted nothing more than to pet a firelizard, was conspicuously free of the little brightly-colored visitors.

Still, the only _real_ disadvantage he was at was a disadvantage of information, not manpower. The Pernese didn’t seem very martial at all. And hopefully he’d get all his questions answered shortly.

“Admiral Naismith.” The tall Pernese diplomat favored Miles with a slight bow. If Robinton hadn’t had a trained grace to his movements, he might have looked something like a drinking bird. Not that Miles would say _that_ out loud.

Unaware of Miles’ thoughts, Robinton said, “I am happy we are able to come together to discuss our disagreements—and perhaps agreements.” Then he waved his keycard at the door of their meeting room, and said, “Shall we?”

The door swallowed all of their keycards without complaint, did calculations and comparisons against the hashes in its database, then popped open with a distinct _thock_.

Bel Thorne and AIVAS were the first to enter, Bel’s gaze lingering for a second on AIVAS before the herm stepped past the androgynoid and Bel began their sweep. AIVAS shadowed them, doing their own examination, and Quinn, Taura, Tuck, and Swift took positions in the corners of the room. Lord Diplomat Lytol blatantly stared at Taura for a moment before ripping his eyes away and glancing at Robinton, who either missed or ignored the gaze. Taura, to Miles’ amusement, stared right back—although it was perhaps not as disconcerting to Lord Lytol (whose extensive facial scars merited a stare or two) as it might be to one of the other idiots that gawped and gaped at her on the regular.

No—that probably wasn’t right. _Miles_ still noticed the stares, after all. He wasn’t sure that anyone who was different ever truly got over it. _We just learn to mask it in different ways._

Polite remarks were exchanged back and forth as they circled the round table in the center of the room and sat. The Pernese offered klah and wine, and Miles in exchange mentioned he’d opened a tab for this meeting in the restaurant upstairs, to be catered to this room if desired, and if they wanted a recommendation on Beta cuisine, the curried vat-proteins were an especial treat—did Pernese eat vat-meat? No? Well, he was no stranger to galactic customs and had a real-animal steak or two himself, but as a word of friendly advice—perhaps _diplomatically_ downplay animal-eating while on Beta, as most of his kinsmen found killing real animals for protein to be abhorrent. He had no qualms about it, however.

Miles _did_ try the klah, despite Quinn’s side-eye look. He wasn’t sure if the look was because the klah could be poisoned or because his metabolic eccentricities could be set off by all sorts of things, especially items not descended from Earth-native flora, but it smelled delicious and he was reasonably certain they needed his services too much to poison him…although even if they didn’t, he had his fleet with his own medics here, and Beta also had some of the best hospitals in the Nexus.

Likewise, the Pernese took his advice and ordered several different curries. Or, the ones that weren’t stationed in corners staring down Quinn, Thorne, and Taura did. He could _probably_ convince at least one of his three companions to come eat with him so he wasn’t the only one in his party eating, but given the circumstances that was likely too informal. Still, he ordered a healthy portion, barely touched it, and hoped Taura would get a moment to polish it off. It was one of her favorites.

“Would it be untoward of me to ask about the firelizards?” he asked as the three Pernese ate. “Or would that be mixing business with pleasure?”

The woman, Master Menolly, laughed. It was a pleasantly furry sound. “Go ahead, Admiral. I get questions all the time.”

That suggested firelizards weren’t necessarily common, even on their planet. “Are firelizards domesticated? How did you end up with so many? Are all of them yours?”

She answered his shotgunned questions readily. “Firelizards were bioengineered by our Ancestors. Which I suppose makes them domesticated—more than the wild-type at least.” Reaching for a blue firelizard sitting expectantly next to her plate hoping for a morsel, Master Menolly showed Miles the creature’s limb. “Dragonets, the original native species, had pincers,” and she mimed a hand that had three or four toes like a bird’s. “Our Ancestors bioengineered firelizards to have hands like this instead.”

The little blue firelizard did have a perfect, small primate hand, that held onto one of her long fingers as she showed it to Miles.

“As for the number I have,” and she laughed again. “Purely an accident. I was in a cave during threadfall, and they happened to begin hatching at the _worst_ possible time. Well, I couldn’t just let all the little babies fly out into threadfall to die, so I fed them. I fed as many as I could. Which made them think I was their mother! And Impression happened.”

He still didn’t understand their usage of the word “impression” and substituted another word to see what would happen. “They imprinted to you?”

“Yes. Many from that clutch, nine of them. And later, another. Ten of the firelizards in this room are mine; the rest belong to others. Why—do you want one?”

Before he could tame his immediate response of YES into something more diplomatic and much more likely to actually _get_ him one, Masterharper Robinton spoke.

“Nobody on Pern knew firelizards _could_ be impressed until over a decade ago. My boyhood dreams of catching one somehow in a net or snare never worked, they just went _between_ before anyone could even try. The Weyrs discovered the trick of it first, unsurprisingly. Menolly here discovered it independently, and was the source of my own little bronze, Zair.” The man caressed the head of the creature, which closed one set of eyelids in pleasure.

Catching Miles’ glance, Menolly said, “Would you like to pet Uncle?” She pointed at the bright blue firelizard.

“Yes, of course,” and Miles only had a moment’s brief thought to what he would look like before he got his legs under him to kneel on his chair so he had enough height to reach across the table for the blue firelizard.

And to his delight, the blue firelizard was unceremoniously dumped in his arms.

A brief intrusive thought ran through his head, of himself chortling and running out the door for dear life clutching the firelizard to his chest in his hands, but that wouldn’t really _work_ and Quinn already sported the battle wounds of facing down firelizards. Both his parents would bestow different shades of disapproval on him if he came home missing an eye or two. Plus, he hardly wanted to become the _blind_ mutie Lord.

So instead of immediately running off on a very stupid scheme, he sat quite still and stroked the firelizard, which felt like living, warm suede, and tried to determine if he could get away on the Barrayaran side of things making a deal for the Dendarii’s services that was solely paid for in firelizard eggs. If it were _completely_ up to him, he’d make the deal—if these things could be _trained_ , he could already think of half-a-dozen ways they could use them. But it was equally as likely to sound to ImpSec like he was going off the deep end in time-honored crazy-Vor fashion promising incredible things to random foreigners for a sack of rotten goose eggs.

“Does their eyes changing mean anything?” he asked, rolling his other thoughts around in the back of his mind. And while he did that, he carefully he got his feet out from under him and sat properly in his chair again, so he stopped looking like a small child at the dinner table, but with the blue firelizard Uncle in his arms, humming softly to itself as he scratched where Master Menolly indicated was the best places to scratch.

“It indicates their mood. Blue and green colors are calm. Red is angry. Well, mostly.”

And for a bit, they went back-and-forth, Miles asking questions about firelizards and firelizard husbandry, and Menolly answering.

Eventually Master Robinton was done with his meal, and poured glasses of Benden wine for them to relax with. Miles nodded his thanks, but didn’t move in any fashion that would divest him of firelizard. While klah so far seemed to have no ill effect on him, he _did_ know the effects of alcohol…and the lure of a firelizard was _much_ more appealing than wine.

Relaxing in his chair, the gaunt diplomat savored his wine and eyed him over the rim of his wineglass. “Thank you for the advice on local cuisine, Admiral. I doubt I would have tried that dish on my own, but it was certainly delicious.”

“Beta isn’t known for its curries; it’s a bit of a hidden secret.”

“Well, I suppose a man like you is very good at uncovering secrets,” Master Robinton said with a glint in his eye.

Miles smiled in a way that was usually interpreted as mysterious.

This only seemed to amuse the Diplomat. But given Miles’ people had illegally tried to snatch the man from the streets for a fast-penta interrogation, Miles figured amusing the man (hopefully positively) was probably a good thing.

“Speaking of secrets,” Robinton said. “I suppose this brings us to other topics.” Glancing at Miles’ untouched meal, and wine, the man paused, as if offering Miles room to object to the talk turning to business. “I wasn’t privy to all of the conversation between you and my second,” and Robinton nodded at Master Menolly. “At risk of having you repeat yourself—would you be willing to tell us a little more about that encounter with the other ship?”

“It’s not so much a secret as it is a mystery,” Miles said. “A ship of the exact same make and model as yours—but in less pristine condition—came out of a wormhole one day, and began harassing us. This was after a rather significant…contract…so it seemed that one of our clients’ enemies had taken umbrage at our involvement and had decided to try to come after us on their own. These things happen, sometimes,” and Miles shrugged. “They flew at our ships aggressively, but never fired weapons—the ship had them, they were simply not used—and tried to hack us but was unable to penetrate our coms. When the ship suddenly stopped flying erratically, we boarded and found the dead pilot, and no other people onboard. The pilot had damage from excessive gees from the maneuvering that had been done. But the brief autopsy we did prior to cremation showed the pilot’s jump set had burnt out first, a few days before the gees, and that had been the thing that had killed the pilot. The excess gees had simply…desecrated the body.”

“Do you know what burnt out the jump set?” the diplomat asked. Miles noticed the man touched the back of his neck where his own implant was when he asked this.

“No idea. It’s an old and obscure make; there were no experts available to consult with. Burnt neural matter is obvious. What exactly caused it, less so.” Miles studied him, then looked at the woman. “Master Menolly—you believe there was a second person piloting the ship? A brain-in-a-box?”

“I was spitballing at the time,” she demurred. “Master Jancis would be a better one to bounce theories off of, as she’s our Smith. _Engineer_ , in galactic. Although she had other duties today, so I’m afraid she’s not here.”

For a diplomat—if that’s what she was—she wasn’t terribly good at lying.

Menolly frowned slightly.

Robinton interjected. “Perhaps this brings us to a possible ‘job’ you could assist us with. As you noticed, our ship is an older model, and having a second ship we could pull parts off of would be invaluable. Certainly preferable to fabricating new parts in some cases—engineers always like to make little changes here and there. Which, of course, would need to be vetted and tested, making them all the more expensive, compared to having original parts at hand. Even our own Master Jancis admits that. Perhaps if you share the coordinates of the junkyard, my second and my Smith can visit and see if we can make heads or tails of your mysterious assailant. And replenish our stock of parts.” A pause, a cocking of the head as if he were listening to an earbud—although one wasn’t visible to Miles’ eyes. “Assuming, of course, the junkyard hasn’t melted the ship down for its precious metals.”

“That’s not very common,” Miles said absently. “Some of the alloys used in older ships are a pain to recycle. All sorts of contaminants. Easier to mine a new asteroid or ten.”

“I see,” Robinton said. “Well, I admit I’m not an expert. And that gives me hope that it might still be intact enough to be useful.”

Still holding the firelizard, Miles said, “We don’t have any sort of tugs in our fleet. How much of the ship would you be interested in? Or would you be flying it out yourself? The anti-gravity doesn’t work, but provided you have a pilot that can use the jump system, the engines and necklin rods themselves seemed functional. Provided the death of the previous pilot in the seat doesn’t make you squeamish.”

“We’re mainly interested in finicky parts that are difficult to manufacture. Not the entire ship. We would select and ship the parts we needed,” Robinton said. “And leave the rest for the wherries to pick over. I would not be a part of that team; there are other matters that require my attention.”

“Ah. The sort that need Dendarii help?” Miles suggested cheerfully.

Robinton looked at Lytol. “I suppose it would make politics back home quite different!”

Lord Lytol blinked at him, then a look of alarm swept over his face. “You wouldn’t—“

“No, no. I was teasing.” Robinton smiled broadly. Then the smile faded. “Actually—I suppose this wouldn’t fall in your purview, Admiral. I realize you’re a mercenary fleet, meant for combat, not a cargo fleet or a fleet with tugs. But would you have advice, Admiral, on how I might _rent_ a large cargo ship?”

“For what?” Miles asked brightly.

“Cargo,” Robinton said blandly.

Right. “I imagine one of the agencies at the docks could put you in touch with a pilot, crew, and ship to do a supplies run.”

“No, no. I mean an _empty_ cargo ship. No pilot, no crew.”

Miles said, “You have an in-system run? Here at Beta?” He knew that wasn’t it, but wanted more information.

“No. I would take it home to Pern, fill it up, bring it back here. Or somewhere in the Nexus. Then return the ship.”

“What sort of make and model?”

“It doesn’t really matter, so long as the cargo space is about as big as the atrium outside here.” That far-away, listening-on-coms look. “And pressurized and heated. Needs to be livable.”

“Well, then you’re back to the model of ship. It’ll be harder to get the pilot than the ship. So if you know what sort of ship you need—“

“My Smith has an adaptor. _I_ will pilot the ship. What sort of ship it is doesn’t matter, as long as it meets our other specifications and requirements.”

Miles said, “I’ve never heard of any ‘universal adaptor’ being a success.”

The shrug Robinton gave was supremely unconcerned with the horrific, horrific danger such a scheme presented to his health.

But Robinton didn’t strike Miles as particularly suicidal. Miles said, “Your jump set isn’t locked to your current ship?”

“Oh, it is. But an adaptor will handle the other ship. However, I do understand you are not the Admiral of a logistics fleet. It was merely an idle question—“

“No, no. It’s a relatively basic question. I’m happy to help.” What if he could get a firelizard or two (a breeding pair?) _and_ some sort of universal jump set technology? Even if he was left with a couple of rotten goose eggs on the firelizard side of things, a true jump set adaptor would be invaluable to the Dendarii.

(And Barrayar. But more immediately, the Dendarii.)

(Although it would be something Illyan could placate others with.)

( _Yes,_ we came away from it with _a sack of alien eggs_ —those crazy Vor—but the universal jump adaptor was _sort of_ useful!)

The other question was what they were _shipping._ Was that worth probing about? His people said most of what the Pernese were selling on Beta were handcrafted goods. They were rather brightly targeting Beta’s upper-crust, which loved to indulge in handmade, unique goods. So perhaps their cargo was more of that, which wasn’t particularly interesting.

Ah. If they had to hire an outside pilot for a ship this big, it would require them to give the location of their planet. That is, if they were truly from a planet like they claimed, and not some group of individuals doing a con. If they were a troupe of conmen, they wouldn’t want anyone to know where they came from, either.

However, the firelizards were real, which suggested the rest probably had some degree of truthiness to it. After reviewing the body-cam footage from Taura and Quinn, which also recorded things like temperature readings, energy signatures, and the like, the teleportation seemed genuine and not some clever illusion or hologram. Even if it _was_ a clever illusion, it would simply mean the firelizards had some sort of advanced stealth technology on them which caused them to vanish completely from sensors on all wavelengths, which would be a good trick in itself.

He found himself glancing at Thorne. Even now, Bel wasn’t particularly enthused by the firelizards. They weren’t going to like this idea one bit—but _really_ , the Ariel was the _perfect_ solution.

Miles said, “The Ariel, captained by Bel Thorne here, has roughly the amount of cargo space you say you want.”

Bel’s eyes widened the slightest bit, but otherwise didn’t react.

“The cargo area can be configured to be run as habitable—although we may have to move a few dropships elsewhere in the fleet.”

The Masterdiplomat glanced at Thorne too, and said, “Are you saying you’d be comfortable with me taking your ship to somewhere you’re unfamiliar with, all by myself?”

“I imagine Captain Thorne and their crew would accompany you there.”

“Ah.” The one deeply uninterested word said it all.

“Bluntly, you’ll never be able to rent a ship without proof of a licensed pilot with a jump set that can fly the particular make and model. And even if you had a licensed pilot, a rental without a known destination won’t be acceptable either. Most rentals have software-locks that prevents clients from entering wormholes that aren’t on the pre-approved route. So if something goes wrong or the person borrowing defaults and a ship needs to be recovered, it will at least be in a known system and not lost in the Nexus. You’d have an easier time buying a ship outright—although that can quickly become pricy.” Probably, Miles judged, well out of their range. They were doing reasonably well selling unique, high-quality crafted items at auction, but not _that_ well. Of course, he didn’t know all of their finances—but his own accountants had pointed out that immediately selling cargo out of a ship’s boot wasn’t the behavior of a well-heeled client.

(His people had disapproved of this meeting. As they did all clients where he was after something other than money. The regular deposits of funds from his mysterious benefactors did little to change the entrenched habits of mercenary accountants.)

“Yes, I suppose that’s sensible,” Robinton said somberly. The news about how ship-renting worked had been received with disappointed but resigned acceptance. “But we are not interested in visitors. If it’s not plausible for me to pilot a ship myself, with no set destination on record, then I suppose it’s not plausible.”

Miles said quickly, “If you have an adaptor that truly works, I don’t see why you couldn’t pilot the Ariel.”

Thorne didn’t flicker so much as an eyelash, but Miles could fancy the herm was avidly imagining all the ways in which they could murder him.

Master Robinton took a sip of his wine, and studied him. “I find it hard to believe you’d allow me to pilot one of your ships without giving my destination beforehand, for the exact reasons you said other agents would refuse such a thing.”

“I imagine if your second and your Smith were with me, investigating the ship at the junkyard, you’d have incentive to bring my people back.”

“…hostages?” The diplomat looked slightly scandalized, as if he hadn’t quite understood what “negotiating with the Admiral of a mercenary fleet” meant until this moment. Despite the way Quinn had tried to snatch and interrogate the man.

Smiling brightly, Miles said, “If we negotiate to enter into a mutual contract, and we are providing a service to your second by transporting her to the agreed-on location, and transporting her back again, I’m not sure I’d consider that ‘hostages’, exactly. Both of your parties would be getting the aid you negotiated for. The incentive to return my ship and Captain back to me in one piece would simply be a side-benefit. Likewise for me returning your people to you.”

“’Negotiated’ for,” Master Robinton said softly. The resigned look of earlier had faded into something thoughtful. “Speaking of that, what _would_ you want, in order to render these sorts of services?”

“Harper,” Lord Lytol warned quietly. His faced had clouded at the word “hostages” and was still dark.

Master Menolly, oddly enough, seemed completely unaffected by the idea of being a hostage. For the last few minutes, she’d been watching Miles with a small smile as he spoke and petted the blue firelizard. But she said nothing.

“Well, let’s negotiate that,” Miles said. “I don’t suppose you have a spare dragon egg laying around?”

Three winces, two horrified expressions. Only the sexbot didn’t visibly change expression at the idea. Clearly, _that_ question was sensitive.

Miles back-pedaled. “Or perhaps twenty firelizard eggs?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not content with how I'm writing Miles, but perhaps eventually I'll figure him out if I keep trying. (I think the problem is that in all the Vorkosigan books, every single Miles book changes him as a person. Like, that's the _goal_ of the book, Miles' growth, and the plot is just the delivery vehicle for character change. And I don't naturally write in that format, not like LMB does. I mean, my characters grow and learn, but not in a self-contained-book way. More in little spurts and pauses.)
> 
> Anyway. We're going into some interesting territory in the upcoming chapters. I actually wrote a BIG chunk of words, like 30,000 of them, last summer. But (unusually for me) they didn't come out as ordered as my fanfic usually does. Usually my original fic is a hot mess, but my fanfic flows out sort of smoothly. Not this time. So I have to stop and backtrack and do edits and rewrites and even pacing/style edits which...is always a thing with my original fic, but almost never fanfic. So that's _odd_. But it's still necessary work that slows stuff down.
> 
> I also had to write this chapter before I even got to the 30k. I just flat-out skipped it in the first rough because it was hard to write. But that's CHEATING, so I eventually did write it. And here it is.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuck gets a little blood on his knife.

**Chapter Fourteen**

“Admiral Naismith,” Bel Thorne said stiffly.

“Hmm?” Miles said as they boarded a shuttle, dreams of firelizard eggs dancing in his head.

“This seems like a bad idea.”

“Why?”

A strangled pause. “It would be…one thing…if you got your eggs now. But they promised you firelizard egg _futures_. They don’t even _have_ the eggs!”

Miles glanced at Thorne, understood this wasn’t about the details of their payment at all. Answered the real question Thorne was asking. “I don’t think it’s a suicide mission. Not even close. You’ve been in hairier positions before, Bel. At least nobody’s shooting at you this time. You accompany him out, let him load his cargo, and accompany him back. Then report to me.”

“I don’t have _coordinates_.”

Miles pulled up a star map on his com, searched for Alpha Sagitarri, and waggled a forefinger at it. “You’re going there.”

Bel opened their mouth.

“You’re not telling me you can’t bug your own coms to capture the jumps, regardless of who is piloting, are you?”

Bel closed their mouth. Then they said, “The sexbot is insulting.”

“As far as I observed, it had impeccable manners towards everyone,” Miles said, purposefully misunderstanding. “Besides, if the Masterdiplomat makes a pass at you because herms are his thing, at least it’ll probably be charming. His accent isn’t exactly hard on the ears, either. Maybe he’ll whisper sweet nothings to you.”

Silence.

Miles sighed. “They’re not completely sure their adaptor will work, anyhow. Just give them navigation access, and see how it goes. There’s a chance all your objections will be moot. However, if their tests work—the Ariel _is_ going. I’d _prefer_ you in charge. But it’s not a necessity.”

“Yes, sir.”

#

“Master Robinton,” Lytol said stiffly and over-formally.

“Yes?”

“You’re traveling with them back to Pern. _Alone.”_

“I’ll have AIVAS with me.”

“What if they take you hostage?”

“I don’t think a single ship can take over Pern, regardless of who they hold hostage. Especially if I’m their only way back home. There’s incentive to keep me alive and happy. Also, the dragonriders I hope to bring back with me might cause a ruckus in their cargo hold.”

“But—“

Menolly spoke. “They’re not taking us hostage, Lord Lytol. That was just him playing the character.”

Both men turned to look at her.

Menolly said, “The fast-penta hasn’t entirely worn off. I’m kind of left with some of the sensitivity, but not the suggestibility. And he was holding Uncle the entire negotiation. It gave me a pretty clear look of where his thoughts were going.”

A surprised pause, then Robinton began chuckling softly, low in his chest.

Lytol frowned, but it wasn’t as severe a frown.

“Admiral Naismith is a _character_. The man himself, Miles Vorkosigan, is actually beholden to Barrayar, which is why he’s helping us essentially as a charity case. He’s an intelligence agent for their ImpSec, not a true mercenary, and he’s looking for information. Which we _knew_ , from when they drugged Robinton, but now we really _know_ directly from Naismith himself _._ He’s insatiably _curious_ , but there’s no malignance in it. He’ll do what he promised, for what we promised him.”

Patting Lytol on the back, Robinton said, “See? We have nothing to worry about. Well, we _do_ have things to worry about, but it seems _that_ isn’t one of them…”

#

The next two days were a whirlwind of activity, as Robinton and AIVAS met with Menolly, Jancis, and Tuck to try to brainstorm every possible thing that could happen, and make as many contingency plans as they could.

The ship junkyard according to Admiral Naismith was a little corner of deep space that connected up to an unusual number of wormholes. It would take the three of them closer to certain polities that Robinton would rather not tangle with, not when they were already juggling Beta Colony and (covertly) Barrayar, so he instructed Menolly not to attempt to establish any embassies, or even to announce they were from Pern. They were there as traders only, looking for replacement parts. Any money they needed would be drawn from the bank on Beta, and their priority was finding the AI. However, they should use the other useful parts on Jancis’ list as camouflage…as ship parts were their stated intentions insofar as Admiral Naismith knew.

Menolly apologized to him in private, later. “I’m sorry I let him know there was something else that was important. I doubt he’ll be fully put off by our diversion.”

“I had no idea myself at the time that it would figure into our plans,” Robinton said. “I don’t expect you to read my mind _and_ our future!” Although he could read his own future in the short term, and it was very, very short on time spent with Menolly.

So they he made the most of their scant time together, and let the firelizards gossip.

#

“Menolly,” Brekke said. “I’ve made appointments for you, Jancis, and Tuck at a clinic. I would like a baseline on all of you, so that if anything happens, or changes, while you’re out of contact, we can detect it when you’re back.”

“What will happen at the clinic?” Menolly said. “This isn’t something you can do yourself? As a Healer?”

“We don’t have the imaging technology. We plan to, Lytol wants to have a well-stocked clinic in our embassy, it will probably be the first chance any Pernese will have the first time they’re off-world to get access to these sorts of scans, but we don’t have it _yet_. I’m sorry, I understand you’d much rather be poked and prodded by someone you know. In the future we can make that happen, just not today.”

It was hard to refute the wisdom of such a thing. Even with the knowledge the Healer Hall had gotten from the Ancients, so many things that were curable were being spotted on Pern that the Healers hadn’t known were preventable before. It would be foolish not to take advantage of that here.

So Menolly, Jancis, and Tuck all went to the clinic Brekke and AIVAS had vetted for them, _firmly_ telling all firelizards to be _elsewhere_ for the duration, signed a bunch of special waivers that released personal information, scan results, and bloodwork to the Pernese Embassy, and were taken one by one into a Healer’s examination rooms, Menolly first.

The Healer that attended to Menolly was an older woman, who was short and reminded her a little of Lessa, if Lessa had had a warm cheerful personality. She gave Menolly an examination that was close enough at first to remind her of regular Healers on Pern. Then she took blood and hair and ran tests in a whirring machine.

This, Brekke had said, was unusual—usually doctors had techs to do that part—but the reason she and AIVAS had selected this clinic was because it _did_ serve high-profile clients, and if a single doctor handled all of their information, that meant there were fewer ways things could get into the wrong hands. It was more expensive, but more secure.

When the test results were in, the doctor sat down with Menolly and said, “Well, you are certainly a remarkably healthy young woman. Moreso than many Betans, that’s for sure. There are a few things we need to go over, however, and one of them will require your input. First off—were you aware there’s metabolic traces of fast-penta in your system?” The Healer’s eyes were very concerned.

“I, uh. Yes. On Pern we use it for…relaxation.”

“Are you sure? Because of your diplomatic status, I’m not mandated to report this to the authorities. But if you _ask_ for help—“

“I’m not asking for help. It’s fine,” Menolly said.

A sigh. Then she said, “Relaxation? Technically, yes it _could_ be used for relaxation. But fast-penta being used for relaxation is overkill. I could prescribe a dozen different alternatives that would do the trick without the consent-suppressing effects.”

“I assure you, I’m truly fine.”

Another sigh, but also a nod. “Well, the next thing on the list—the boron content in your body is extremely high. However, your intestinal flora seem partly comprised of boronophiles, which I imagine helps you manage that. None of them are in the Survey records, by the way, so I imagine you’re telling the truth about being planet-born. Weird bioflora is extremely common in diplomats from various planets.” The woman winked. “If you end up away from your home planet for too long, or are put on antibiotics for any reason, you may have some difficulty in the form of diarrhea and other intestinal upsets when eating your native cuisine again. Unless you also have genetic adaption, in which case I could be completely wrong. Genetics is not my specialty, I’m a general practitioner, although I can refer you to a specialist if needed. Just be aware you could end up with some tummy troubles from time to time the longer you are away from home.”

Menolly nodded.

“Now, the last thing, I imagine you’re completely unaware of, as it’s very early. So you’ll need to make a decision. You are pregnant. The embryo seems male, although a full genetic panel would need to be done to rule out any intersex conditions, and you won’t truly know the gender unless you bring the child to term and ask it when it’s older. It’s only a few days old, hasn’t even implanted yet. What do you want to do with it?”

Menolly stared.

The Healer looked at her patiently, then said, “I’m not at all familiar with your culture. If I offend, I apologize. If I may ask, how does your culture handle children?”

“…what do you mean?” Menolly asked on autopilot, as her thoughts flew.

“Childbearing. Body-births? Uterine replicators? Or other traditions?”

“…body-births. We don’t have uterine replicators. Although we thought for my friends…who were having trouble…but on Pern, we don’t use them. Because we don’t have them.”

“I see. How are children raised? With the mother? Father? Both? With other caretakers?”

“Usually the mother takes care of them. Unless she doesn’t want to. If she doesn’t, or can’t because of her Craft, someone in the Hold fosters them. Dragonriders foster a lot.”

“Are women forced to carry to term?”

“No,” Menolly said. “Unless you’re in a backwards hold without a proper Healer.” Like the one she grew up in, where mobility from seahold to seahold and simple deaths at sea could decrease population, and make men desire lots of sons and daughters to keep the hold and ships populated. “Medicine, or a few trips _between_ , can handle unwanted pregnancies. I imagine that’s why I’ve not become pregnant until now—I ride on dragons a few times a month. Although sometimes you get an overbearing husband. Not often though, because the entire Hold knows if a woman doesn’t want a child, it’ll be someone _else_ caring for it anyway. And there’s only so many fosterers. Not in anyone’s interest to have too many kids nobody wants.” Menolly suddenly refocused on the doctor. “You’re sure it’s only a few days old? Not older?”

“I’m certain.”

Which made it Robinton’s, not Sebell’s.

Two instincts immediately warred in her. The urge to keep it—KEEP IT—because if something _happened_ to Robinton like that awful sickness AIVAS had put him through (she knew it wasn’t AIVAS’ fault, but it was still connected to him in her mind, all the horror of it) at least she’d have _something_ of him with her no matter what.

And she felt, nearly as keenly, the knowledge that _now was not the time_ to have a child. In fact, it was the _worst_ possible time. Out of every day of her entire life, there was no worse time for her to be carrying a child. She would almost certainly have to foster it, nine months was not enough time to establish Pern in the Nexus. Much less the time it’d take to _raise_ a child.

“What are my options?” Menolly heard herself say.

“Well. We could end the pregnancy. It’s so early you wouldn’t even notice it, it would simply be absorbed into your system. We could leave it, of course, if you wanted to try to have a body-birth. Although I don’t recommend that; carrying a pregnancy to term irreversibly changes your body and can give rise to things like gestational diabetes and other problems, not to mention limited mobility which can interfere with one’s career. I understand that culturally you may be pressured towards this, but it _will_ change your health. We could implant it into an uterine replicator, and let it grow there, which is the safest bet if you want a healthy baby and a healthy you. Or we could freeze it.”

“Freeze it?”

“Yes. Store it for later, so you can begin its development at your leisure.”

Menolly very barely prevented herself from laughing hysterically at that. Store it for later—like a sweet treat you might save to eat before bed! The thought was probably much funnier to her than to anyone else.

(But it was _very_ funny to her current state of mind!)

“Would freezing damage it?” she heard herself say, even though she knew it wouldn’t, since her Ancient ancestors brought frozen embryos and that’s how they colonized Pern. It was an old, tested technique.

Which the Healer confirmed, in detail, as she listened and asked questions.

In the end, it was an easy decision to make. Too easy, actually. Her mind kept going back to Pern, with Pernese options, where she was fairly certain she would simply have little choice but to have an ill-timed baby, and watch all _her_ career prospects float by to land on another Harper’s shoulders. She would still _want_ it, because it was Robinton’s…but would chafe at the way such a thing turned her life into a standstill.

But those _weren’t_ the only options she had, here. She could keep it _and_ delay it. Have her cake and eat it too.

It was a weird sort of freedom she’d never imagined having.

So she froze it, which was a shockingly quick procedure with the same doctor (who was surprised but amiable when firelizards showed up to support her in her nervousness), and she had them take some of her eggs and freeze them too, which didn’t take very long either, and then she opted to have an implant put in to prevent further incidents, and walked back into the waiting room where Tuck and Jancis had already been in and out of their respective appointments.

“Is everything okay?” Jancis queried. “You went in before us and came out after.”

Menolly felt a big smile appear on her face briefly before vanishing, and she said, “Yeah. I’m sorry it took so long. I had an implant put in. To prevent pregnancy, since we’re not exactly going _between_ much now.”

Jancis blinked. “I didn’t even think to ask—well, when we return. It’s not like Piemur’s coming with me.”

Master Tuck, off to the side, acted like he’d completely forgotten women existed and just happened to vaguely be walking beside them.

Menolly was half-tempted to ask him if he’d gotten snipped, but didn’t want to kick that den of tunnel-snakes, and left him alone.

#

Because she wasn’t pregnant _anymore_ , and because so many other preparations were filling up her time, it didn’t quite occur to her after she got back that she should tell Robinton about any of this until she, Jancis, and Tuck were ready to meet up with the Dendarii.

She’d long since stopped telling Sebell about suspected miscarriages when she had a bit of spotting here or there. She flew _between_ too often, and even Sebell, who was quite supportive of her, didn’t really know what to say or do after the first few times it happened. They’d sort of accepted that a brief moment of being pregnant, followed swiftly by being not-pregnant, was an ordinary thing in life.

And now _really_ wasn’t the time to worry Robinton. The little embryo was safe and frozen until a better time. The Healer had told her that they could unfreeze it and put it in a uterine replicator whenever—the only point of worry was that if the geneticists found some sort of genetic error too severe to edit, there was a small chance she might not be able to use _that_ specific embryo, but would have to procure another.

That did give her the fleeting urge to ask Robinton to have some of his seed frozen before he returned to Pern…but that _also_ really wasn’t a topic she wanted to get into _right now_ directly before going off on a very important assignment. The timing would be _terrible_.

So she simply stood there with the strangest thoughts going through her head as Robinton reiterated their goals, asked for any last-minute information they had to share (she _absolutely_ didn’t request he go put his seed on ice _then_ either!) then took a moment to hold him tight as they said a final good-bye, and hoped that absolutely _nothing_ would go wrong for either of them on their respective journeys.

#

Sergeant Taura was the one to meet them at the docking bay with the Dendarii shuttle, and she tossed their luggage easily onto the ship, except for the instruments, which she handled carefully.

“What’s in this one?” she asked Menolly, holding a triangular-shaped case.

“That’s my harp,” Menolly said. “I’ll play once we’re on board the Admiral’s ship—if that’s fine with him, of course.”

“I’d like to hear it,” Taura said with a smile that shyly flashed a bit of fang.

Menolly, who had never been on a ground-to-space shuttle, decided as they jostled and rattled skywards on their take-off from Beta that dragons were a far, _far_ superior mode of transportation. Even on a windy day. At least you could _see_ what was rocking and rattling you around! Jancis, however, was very happy to tell them all about the details of being strapped to a couple of rockets and shot into the sky, she seemed positively giddy with joy, while Tuck pretended to sleep, but was slowly turning a shade of green that belied his cool response to the situation.

The firelizards were split between agreeing with Menolly and Tuck that everything was miserable, why couldn’t they have coordinates _between_ , and agreeing with Jancis that rattling around was the _most fun thing ever_ , and Menolly apologized more than once when they disrupted one of the other passengers returning from shore leave on Beta Colony, with their joyful darting around.

When they were on board the Triumph, Taura showed them to their quarters, which were vanishingly small but at least arranged next to and across the hall from one another, and Menolly’s firelizards seemed to mostly charm the mercenaries—except for one fellow who went for a weapon before Taura swiftly disarmed him—who were willing enough to accept all sorts of entertainment given the boredom of mercenary life on a ship when a contract wasn’t underway.

Admiral Naismith remained charmed by them too. When Menolly, Jancis, and Tuck were shown to his office (which wasn’t much bigger than any other room in the ship) he asked, “So how often do they go into estrus? Or heat?” by way of greeting.

“They have mating flights a couple of times a turn,” Menolly said. “More often if you’re living somewhere tropical.” Admiral Naismith wasn’t the first future-firelizard-owner to pester her with questions about how soon his eggs would arrive, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last! It was comforting, in a way, to know galactics reacted to some things similarly to Pernese.

“Are there enough of them here to mate?” he asked worriedly. “How many are female?”

“Greens and golds are female, the other colors male. There’s enough here to have a successful flight, although nine of my ten are siblings. That won’t make a difference for the first generation, but a few generations down the line it could be a problem. Beauty doesn’t often fly her siblings; it will probably be one of Master Tuck’s or Master Jancis’ firelizards, if Beauty rises while we’re on your ship.”

“Oh, _you_ must be Master Jancis,” Admiral Naismith said, catching the name, and held out a hand for her to shake, which she did. “How did you like the journey up?”

Jancis laughed and said, “I enjoyed it, but my companions less so. But they’re Harpers, not Smiths, and would much rather explore the inner workings of a song than a ship, so I’ve already forgiven them.”

“I’ve never explored the inner workings of a song in my life,” Tuck said pleasantly.

“That’s a lie,” Menolly said. “You have your Harper Mastery. You’ve written a song or two.”

“Well, _perhaps_. Can’t say I _liked_ it. Like squeezing water from a stone.”

Menolly said, “Thank you for bringing us onto your ship, Admiral, and taking us to our destination. Hopefully your own mystery will be solved, and we will retrieve the parts we need.”

The Admiral nodded. “We sent a message ahead to see if that particular ship has been sold or scrapped, but we’ll probably get a response halfway there. If it’s already been sold or has transferred hands, we may be able to get leads to change course.”

That was one of the scenarios Menolly had planned on but hoped wouldn’t happen. AIVAS had warned them the longer their contracts with Admiral Naismith went on, the more costly things would be, as running a fleet wasn’t cheap, and if a deal looks too good to be true, it often is. Menolly also simply didn’t want to venture halfway across the Nexus unexpectedly, although she’d send a communication back to Lytol if their course had to change, so at least _someone_ would know what was happening.

She said, “I hope we don’t have to go chasing the ship across the galaxy. But it’s good to have options.”

“Speaking of options,” the Admiral said. “Can you tell what color is going to come out of an egg before it hatches? Oh! And do you think Betan sand will suffice? I recall you said before they nest in hot sands…Beta has plenty of that, so I had my people pick up a few sacks of it for the journey…”

#

“I don’t know how you do it, Menolly,” Tuck said later as the three of them were quietly gathered in one of the tiny bedrooms.

She yawned and raised an eyebrow.

_“Endless_ questions about firelizards. On and on and _on._ I swear that little man would have taken you by the heels and shaken you if he thought that’d get the answers he wanted out of you any faster.”

Menolly said, “I just hope he doesn’t try to impress an entire clutch to himself. I’m not sure he listened to my warnings that ten of them are really more than a single person should have. He’ll lose some _between_ for sure if he doesn’t parcel them out in ones and twos.”

“You gave him all those warnings and more,” Jancis said, and yawned herself.

“I did. But even with the Lord Holders Benden didn’t parcel out more than three at a time. Precisely _because_ some people aren’t sensible about it. Especially men used to getting their own way.”

Jancis patted her on the back. “Yeah, but there’s not much you can do about it. Anyway, I’m headed to sleep. It was nice of them to give me access to their engineers; I have so many questions, and I want to be up early to think up some more.”

“Good night, Jancis,” Menolly said.

“Night,” Tuck said as Jancis waved and left.

“I don’t suppose you can perform tomorrow in the engineering bays?” Tuck asked Menolly.

She frowned.

“It’d be easier for me if you two stuck together.”

“Go with Jancis,” Menolly said. “I have my firelizards.”

Tuck’s eyes told her he was weighing the responses of Sebell and Robinton if anything happened. Not that the Mastersmith would be any more happy about something happening to Jancis, but Tuck didn’t report to _him_.

“Do I have to pull rank?” she asked him. She never _liked_ to pull rank on Harpers older than herself, but had done it before and would again.

After a moment, he shook his head.

“Do take advantage of the gyms and shooting galleries Admiral Naismith offered,” Menolly added. “I imagine these people know and understand galactic weapons quite well.”

Tuck nodded. “I imagine so. And I will.”

“Good.” Rising, Menolly silently summoned her firelizards to her own quarters next door. “I’m exhausted too. See you in the morning, Tuck.”

#

Menolly was plucking at her gitar, worriedly watching Tuck get his arse handed to him over and over in a shooting competition, when the little Admiral popped up by her side. “Master Menolly,” he said.

“Hello, Admiral Naismith.”

“Have a moment for some more questions?”

“Certainly,” she said, and brought her gitar with as they headed back to his office.

“I’m told the ship has terrible acoustics,” he said.

“Well. Yes,” she said. “The mess hall is…acceptable, though. In comparison.”

“They’ll appreciate live music. It’ll be different at least. You don’t mind playing?”

“Oh, no. I’m a Harper. It’s what I do. But I’m not familiar with galactic tastes. It’ll be a learning experience.”

“My outfit is diverse. No matter what you play, someone will like it, guaranteed.”

She made a small sound of semi-agreement. He wasn’t wrong, but that also wasn’t her goal. She didn’t want _someone_ to like her. She needed to discover what was _popular_. His ship was going to be an important test case, to see if she could become as popular amongst galactics as she was back home. If she could replicate her success, it would help the funding of their embassies tremendously.

Speaking of popular, Admiral Naismith was quite popular among his people. The way they straightened their backs when he was around and sort of glowed with pride wasn’t much different to how Harpers responded to Robinton.

Maybe it would be as simple as learning about his past deeds and putting them to song.

Was he the sort that _liked_ that kind of thing? Or would it break their agreement faster than a firelizard could go _between_? Lessa, for example, didn’t mind hearing songs about herself but had little interest being involved in the making of it. Robinton himself had had to talk to F’lar and other people that _weren’t_ her to get some details for the ballad he’d written. And F’lar _never_ tolerated Harpers singing about him when he was _there_. Sebell had a standing order amongst his Harpers to check twice for Mnementh (who, being large, was easy to spot at a gather), _then_ sing.

It was going to take at least a month to get where they were going. She had time to figure it out.

In his office, she took the seat that was offered, while the Admiral sat on the edge of his desk, the heels of his ship-shoes knocking idly against the metal. “So are firelizards trainable?”

Silently fingering the strings of her gitar, she said, “Trainable to do what?”

“Oh—to teleport to a certain place, or to push a button, or to attack.”

The last one made her pause. Nobody who _understood_ dragons or firelizards would think the last a reasonable goal. Which meant, perhaps, that her explanation of Impression (or “imprinting” as he was prone to calling it) had been flawed, or misunderstood.

In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she realized she _hadn’t_ explained it, and had merely taken his use of _imprinting_ to mean he understood.

Strumming a few chords, Menolly thought for a moment. She didn’t really want to get into too much detail about telepathy. It could show their hand. At the same time, she would be betraying all the little firelizards they were giving the man if he didn’t _understand_.

Eventually she said, “The word ‘imprinting’ to refer to the bond between a firelizard and a human is incorrect. The correct term is ‘Impression’, and no other term should be substituted. It has a very specific meaning on Pern, which only applies to creatures like firelizards and dragons. The imprinting that Earth-descended waterfowl do is not at all the same. Not biologically, or pragmatically.”

He blinked. “Okay,” he said.

“When a firelizard hatches, and you feed it, it Impresses to you. This means it forms a bond with you. What _you_ feel, _it_ feels. What you _think_ , it hears. If something hurts you, it screams like the pain is its own. I broke my toe once on a stone stair, and my firelizards all started favoring their hind foot until I numbed it.”

He became still.

“The bond of a dragon to their rider is much stronger than the bond of a firelizard to a human. But the bond of a firelizard to a human is still much more than anything you would have with a runner, or a canine, or a feline.” She paused. “A firelizard _will_ defend you if you are in danger. They’re fierce and loyal. But if _it_ gets hurt, you’ll also feel its pain. Someone who trains their firelizards to attack on demand will likely lose their firelizards. The bond will break, the firelizard will go _between_ forever.”

“Go where?”

“We think some suicide. They go _between_ and never come out. Others become wild. Depends on how deep the bond was before the betrayal, I suppose. A firelizard is smart enough to be sad, to feel all the emotions you and I do. And they are _very_ social. A brokenhearted firelizard will pine just like a human. I listen to my faire gossip with one another and any other firelizard around all day, every day. They have moods, depending on their interactions with other creatures during the day. But unlike dragons, who never abandon their riders except in death, a firelizard will abandon a cruel human. And training a firelizard to attack is cruel. You’re asking them to put their small life on the line for human things that don’t even concern them, and if they get hurt, they won’t even understand _why_ , or what for. It’s like sending children into battle.”

“I see.”

“They can and should be trained in other ways. To obey, sit quietly, or to go elsewhere. They get excited easily, and if they are trained to obey, it can get them out of the way so people can focus on people things without them interfering. They can be trained to do tricks and manipulate objects, but they get bored easily by repetition. They’re extremely smart, like small children in some ways, and just like a small child, they’ll revolt and rebel if they don’t want to do something. And throw tantrums—if they think they can get away from it.”

“What’s their social order like?”

“They tend to follow the oldest mature queen. Among the firelizards here, that’s my Beauty. If you have a queen in the group, and can get the queen to obey the human she’s Impressed to, she can generally enforce her will on all the others, or get the bronzes to help her enforce her will. That’s why I keep Beauty in particular around so often—it’s easier to keep my faire under control if she’s with me. If no queens are around, there’ll be a dominant bronze, or a pair of dominant bronzes. If no bronzes are around, a brown. Blues and greens, it just depends on the personality of the firelizards in question. One or another will be louder or more pushy—at least until a queen shows up.” She strummed another chord, noticing a natural progression both in her music and in the conversation. “In the Weyrs, dragonriders follow the same structure, more or less, with the rider inheriting most of their rank from their dragon’s color and abilities. The senior queenrider will be the Weyrwoman of the Weyr. The bronze dragon that flies her each turn or half-turn elevates his rider to the position of Weyrleader.”

“That is…a unique form of governance,” the Admiral said after a long moment.

“Once a queen settles on a bronze she likes, it’s more stable than it sounds,” Menolly said wryly. “Most everyone who isn’t weyrbred questions it, until you realize dragons are very large creatures, and naturally follow the oldest queen. Her favorite bronze logically is the bronze most able to help her enforce her will on all the other dragons. Which is important, because if a dragon doesn’t want to listen to humans…well. The human loses.”

“I expect _that_ must hurt.”

She blinked. “Oh! No, a dragon will _never_ be violent with people. Not unless you hurt their rider, in which case all bets are off. They’ll never attack first though. But a rider is only so big. If they can’t convince their dragon to do something with words or emotions, it’s not like they can grab the dragon by the scruff and _make_ it get in line. The queen and her mate can, though. And the queen listens to her rider, the Weyrwoman, and her mate to his rider, the Weyrleader.”

“How do white dragons fit in?”

“Oh, Ruth?” She shrugged. “He’s a…sport. Not like the other dragons. He’s much smaller than the others, and no other dragon is white.”

“So he’s a mutie runt?” The words didn’t hold rancor, in fact, there was a bit of amusement in the corners of Admiral Naismith’s eyes.

“The uncharitable might say that. But Ruth is probably the smartest dragon on Pern, and one of the most talented. He has more than proven his abilities, and so has his rider, Lord Jaxom.”

This seemed to amuse the Admiral even more, and he gave her a lopsided grin.

It made her wonder suddenly how old he was. She knew he was playing a role with Admiral Naismith, and part of that was his attitude which occasionally seemed to feign a crotchetiness beyond his years. The hunch in his back encouraged her to think he was older, but Master Oldive’s hunch did that too, so she suspected Admiral Naismith wasn’t far off from her own age, or Sebell’s if she recalibrated her perception as she’d had to do with Master Oldive.

“I was hoping to meet Lord Jaxom and his remarkable dragon Ruth before we left,” the Admiral said while she was mentally revising his age down in her head.

_I know_. “Lord Jaxom generally doesn’t involve himself in diplomatic efforts,” Menolly said. That wasn’t strictly true, Jaxom and Ruth’s appearance suggested that eventually they _would_ , but that was neither here nor there. “He was a student of Master Robinton’s, and Lord Diplomat Lytol was his foster-father and the Lord Warder of Ruatha Hold before Lord Jaxom was of age. I expect he was doing them a favor by appearing and transporting Masterdiplomat Robinton to his other appointment quickly. But the Holds, Halls, and Weyrs are autonomous, and from a diplomatic standpoint, it would be deeply inappropriate for the Lord Holder of Ruatha to participate in diplomatic efforts on behalf of _all_ of Pern. It could cause the other Lords Holder to take umbrage and begin meddling in Ruatha’s affairs. Imagine if a mayor of a single Betan city tried to speak to another planet on behalf of all of Beta.”

“Severely-worded statements on social media would abound,” Admiral Naismith said, his drawling accent stronger for a moment.

She laughed. “Media on Beta is quite different from what I’m used to, I admit. I heard Master Robinton was ‘memed’,” Menolly commented. “AIVAS explained it to us like a world-wide in-joke.”

“Pretty much. I’m surprised, by the way, that AIVAS didn’t accompany you. They seemed knowledgeable about the mystery ship.”

“AIVAS is knowledgeable about everything. But he rarely leaves Master Robinton’s side.”

“Are all herms on your planet referenced as ‘he’? Captain Thorne was a bit rattled by it. Herms on Beta are very vigilant about maintaining their status as a third gender, and don’t like to be considered male or female ‘lite’.”

Menolly could tell she was being maneuvered into revealing more about things she didn’t want to reveal. If she said herms didn’t exist on Pern, that would lead to questions of why a herm was with them, or closer probing of AIVAS’ nature. After a moment of thought, she said, “You’ll have to ask him next time we see him. He’s indicated he’s a he, so we accept his decision.”

“Is he Pernese?”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

Admiral Naismith seemed appeased by her answer, and she was glad she was able to steal a bit of Robinton’s guilelessness effectively. She’d never be a natural dissembler like Robinton and Sebell, but she could still manage a bit of it, and added a Robinton-like rising note to underscore her query.

It drew Naismith’s attention, and he said, “Does the word ‘Harper’ have anything to do with harps?”

“Everything,” she said. “My husband Sebell’s favored instrument is the harp.”

“Oh, is he here? On Beta, I mean. Clearly he’s not here-here. Unless Master Tuck—?“

Generally, Admiral Naismith was surprisingly free of the behaviors she regularly saw from men on Pern towards female Crafters. Perhaps if two of his main subordinates were women and the other a herm it shouldn’t be surprising. But clearly, despite his amiable behavior, there was one classic line that still spouted from men across the galaxy. _Oh, you have a husband??? Is he around (where he might get in my way)?_

She batted around the idea of lying, then decided Admiral Naismith hadn’t really done anything to deserve that. “No, Master Sebell is back on Pern. We were both Master Robinton’s students, until Master Robinton retired as Masterharper. Master Sebell followed in Master Robinton’s footsteps as Masterharper, making Sebell one of the few Masterharpers throughout history whose main instrument is a harp! I prefer gitar myself, it’s better for composing, but Sebell’s a bit traditional, and doesn’t compose nearly as much as I do.”

“What do Harpers do? I get the impression it’s some sort of trade union…”

“The Harper Hall is essentially Pern’s main university, turned into a Craft. Because threadfall began so early after initial colonization, devouring crops and trees and everything organic and forcing a move from the original settlement in the south at Landing to the north, we were not able to maintain our technology base. What technology the university had lasted about into the Second Pass, as far as we can tell. It was a very long time ago, and many of the oldest Records are rotten or illegible. Due to threadfall, paper was incredibly scarce because trees easily succumb to it, and animal hides don’t do well when wet. Our buildings are made of stone or created entirely underground and can have humidity and temperature fluctuations, which can harm Records. Anyway, the university transitioned to oral methods, and it was determined songs, in the form of the teaching ballad, would be the best way to maintain knowledge. If something was fun to listen to, people would learn it, and history and knowledge would be preserved even without computers or the widespread use of paper.”

“What about plastic?”

“Plastic is an organic material. Thread eats it. Thread would eat a flimsy. Or rather, the organics to make it would take the place of food crops, and we needed food more urgently than flimsies.” Menolly smiled. “Our Ancestors weren’t stupid, they were presented with a reoccurring planet-wide catastrophe, and many things were either vulnerable to thread or diverted the resources needed for survival on a world with thread, and became lost. Our Ancestors who ran the University saw this knowledge loss happening, and determined we could and should fall back on a robust oral history, like the ancient civilizations of old earth. And the university became the Harper Hall, with a mandate to keep the people of Pern educated and able to read and write, and aware of their rights as Pernese citizens under the original Charter. The Harper Hall trains all Harpers, and confers—or removes, in cases of punishment—the various ranks of Harper and the ability to make a living as a trained Harper. For the most part, other Crafts work similarly. For little things, a Hold might use non-Craftsmen to get things done. For every man trained in the Farmercraft and awarded a rank, there’s probably fifty who work the fields without having received a full education in agriculture, but for large things where quality matters more than quantity, Holds will have an appropriate number of Crafters assigned to them. This is negotiated between the Holder and the head of the Crafthall or a regional representative—usually the senior Craftsman at the major Hold a minor Hold looks to. Master Sebell assigns Harpers across Pern. Master Fandaral assigns Smiths, as he’s the Mastersmith. Master Oldive, the Masterhealer, assigns Healers. And so on and so forth.”

“And nobody practices a craft without a rank?”

“They try. Depending on what their Hold has them doing, the Craftmaster can threaten to pull their people from the Hold. This usually causes the Holder to reassign the task to a real Craftsman, or request one if there is not a local one. The Healer Hall is the only Craft that won’t do this; they can’t ethically pull all Healers from a Hold in order to force the Holder to punish non-Healers from practicing. That would only make a situation they’re uncomfortable with worse. But the Healer Hall is historically supported by the other Crafts who will strike in their stead if necessary. The main Harper and Healer Halls are in very close proximity, and the Harper Hall will sometimes do a soft strike as a warning on behalf of the Healers. Not all Holders respect the Harper Hall’s mandate though, or feel the loss of education is a punishment, so if that doesn’t work, it’s usually the Smith Craft that’ll strike next, if the Healers need it, and that’ll get the Holders moving. The bad Holders might not care about the health or education of their people, but when the Smiths stop making blades or fixing machinery, they tend to notice very quickly.”

“What if they don’t?”

“I’ve never heard of that happening—well, I have, but not in recent times. I expect someone would petition the Weyrs to step in, and the Holder would stop being foolish right away. After, perhaps, changing his pants.”

“The Weyrs hold that much power?”

“The Weyrs protect the crops. If they stop fighting thread, the crops fail. If the crops fail, the people starve. Starving people riot and remove the bad Holder, and put a new one in his place. The Weyrs resume protecting the fields from thread.”

“…is there a Weyr-based diplomat to meet? If Master Robinton represents your Crafts, and Lord Lytol your Holds.”

She smiled. “Master Robinton has gone to fetch him. If all goes well, you’ll meet him in one of your very own ships.”

#

Not his world, not his problem, but Miles spent the aftermath of his conversation with Master Menolly trying to imagine scores of dragons burning “thread” from the sky in order to save crops and prevent worldwide destruction of an entire planet’s organic ecosystem. For certain, once Betan anthropologists began to take these newcomers seriously, academic careers would be made studying Pern’s unique approach to the strange problem, and the Craft-Hold-Weyr system she’d explained had developed out of it.

When he asked if there were holos, images, or vids of dragons fighting thread, Menolly looked thoughtful and said, “I suppose that would make sense, but no. Everyone knows what thread is, and I didn’t really consider that we might want to demonstrate what it is to anyone else.” A pause. “AIVAS _might_ have some videos. Ask him when he returns.”

Would ships be able to do anything in this fight? Maybe find the source of thread and remove it? He regretted deeply now that he’d assigned Thorne to the more “boring” mission—especially after Menolly revealed the need for cargo space was due to the transport of dragons. Bel, the cynic in all of this, would get to meet dragons first, and he was _wildly_ jealous.

Too late, now.

(Well, it wasn’t, but selling Dendarii services for firelizard eggs and far too few Betan dollars was pushing it; trying to hare off to save a planet from a threat he’d never heard of until recently when by all indications the original colonists were more or less handling the issue themselves would probably be too much.)

Still, he daydreamed just a little bit about riding a flaming dragon. He couldn’t _quite_ decide if he wanted it to be white, like Ruth for solidarity’s sake, or a bronze with a route to Weyrleadership.

Taura showed up after a while, and poked her head in. “Wanna watch a duel?”

Not really, but Taura knew it wasn’t his sort of thing so the offer was unusual. “What sort of duel?”

“Harper Tuck’s challenged Peter Bok to a sword duel.”

“You mean fencing?” Some of the crew liked to fence. It seemed pointless to him. Too many rules. (Also, his short stature made him bad at it.)

“No.”

Peter Bok was—Miles was _almost_ certain—one of the ImpSec agents planted in his fleet. He was pretty sure the man’s real first name was Piotr, although he hadn’t fully figured out the rest of it.

It was _really_ unusual for ImpSec men to do anything that might catch his attention, so the fact that his attention was being caught at all squared it immediately. “Tell me it’s for fun,” Miles said, because he didn’t want to have to explain anything about either man’s wounds to anyone, ImpSec or Pernese. And he certainly didn’t want any bodies.

“Yeah, it’s all in fun. First blood. Even got a medic on standby. Come see. Nobody’s ever been around before that could challenge _Peter_ to a real swordfight!”

So Miles came to see, his people silently moving aside so he could get a proper view without straining.

And Taura was right. It _was_ a real swordfight, and it was clear both men knew very well what they were doing.

Bok had an unorthodox style of holding his sword and offhand defensive knife—but it still reminded Miles strongly of a hybrid of some of the things with a knife Bothari had demonstrated to him, very long ago, and the sword styles stupid Vor lordlings used when they were trying to “keep alive” their “cultural history” by practicing the sort of swordcraft that’d get them in all sorts of deep trouble if even the faintest rumor of dueling reared its head. He tucked this observation away in case he ever needed it later. Miles didn’t think Bok was Vor, but it was very probable he’d learned techniques from the same type of armsman who might be persuaded to give Vor clandestine lessons.

Tuck used a different style, quite unfamiliar to Miles, but it looked well-practiced, and he was easy with it and smiling amiably at his opponent, even as they circled one another like sharks looking for openings. Miles noticed the knife Tuck held was the same knife Pernese carried for eating, and stored _that_ away in his head as well. Clearly the knives Pernese wore at their belts weren’t _just_ for eating with.

Metal flashed, feints were made and dodged, and both men sweated. Tuck’s little firelizard was perched to the side, its eyes a dangerous-looking orange color Miles had never seen on any of the others, but which Quinn had described. He wondered if what Menolly had said about never training firelizards to attack was fully true, but decided not to accuse Tuck of being dishonorable until the firelizard actually attacked or did something to draw Bok’s attention.

Feint, dodge, feint, strike, parry. Bok had the longer reach, but Tuck was faster, older, and more canny. It seemed they were well-matched.

Taura whispered, “He’s good at wrestling, too.”

Tuck, obviously.

_Well_ , Miles was glad Master Menolly’s armsman wouldn’t be bored out of his skull the entire trip. It was also nice he’d helped confirm that Bok had Barrayaran training. As he turned away, there was a murmur amongst the onlookers, then a cheer, and when he glanced back Bok was swiping his hand at a bleeding red slash just below his eye, as the medics immediately moved in and the room gave Tuck the win.

#

Menolly perched on a stool by Jancis with her gitar, and watched her fuss with Smithing busywork the Dendarii had given the other woman without really seeing Jancis or anything else.

Tuck. _Tuck_ , the sharding, _bloody_ little—

Beauty made an angry sound, and Jancis looked up, startled. “Menolly?”

“It’s nothing,” Menolly said, and forced herself to take a few breaths. “It’s not you. Don’t mind me.”

She hadn’t _imagined_ that Tuck, upon hearing that one of the people on this ship (other than Quinn) had been involved on the attack on Robinton, would promptly challenge the man to a sword duel. If she _had_ , she wouldn’t have mentioned _anything_ in Tuck’s hearing!

At least Tuck had the wherewithal to make the challenge and fight the man entirely under the friendly pretense of “dueling”. And he hadn’t broken character _once_. Just a friendly duel, oh yes—gotta keep my hand in, heard you were good too—why don’t we give these folks a show? Faranth knows I can barely hit the broad side of a bovine with a stunner—but _swords_ …that’s a different thing entirely!

And the man hadn’t guessed _why_ his blood was on the tip of Tuck’s sword. Although Menolly knew quite well it was on Robinton’s behalf. (And _maybe_ hers, but _definitely_ Robinton’s.) Tuck had worked too long with Robinton on clandestine missions to take an insult like that to Robinton’s personage lightly, even if Robinton himself had decided to forgive it. If they were still on Pern, Tuck certainly would have cried insult on the man, and dueled for _much_ more than first blood.

_You can take the man off Pern, but not Pern out of the man._ She’d heard a Dendarii woman say the original phrase earlier today, and truly, it fit here as well with a few tweaks.

That brought a melody to mind, and, still irate, she began to work furiously on a little tune starring a _stupid_ , loyal man errantly undercutting his Master with his _stupid_ , poorly chosen displays of loyalty.

(What she _really_ wanted to do was lay into him, but disciplining a man like Tuck was not something to be done in anger, or lightly. Nor did she want to alert their hosts to the incident, which would happen if she let herself be as blunt as she normally would be. The walls had ears. She would figure out the proper course of action after she’d cooled down.)

Jancis watched her warily for a while, then went back to perusing schematics and tools and machines, as Menolly wrote a blistering ballad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, that terrible sex scene I need to rewrite a 3rd time is abruptly relevant.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zair tries to eat something he shouldn't.

**Chapter Fifteen**

Captain Bel Thorne, as far as Robinton could tell, did not approve of AIVAS, although the reason behind the faint air of disapproval was not made clear to either AIVAS or Robinton.

Nonetheless, Thorne did as they were told when Robinton and AIVAS showed up at the shuttle taking them to the Ariel, and took them to its ship, and directly to the pilot seat.

The Ariel’s existing pilot, however, was terrified at handing the ship over to Robinton, and she flat-out disparaged Robinton’s looks, mental capacity, and parentage right in front of him in her extremely vocal and verbose objections to Captain Thorne.

Robinton crossed his arms over his chest and put a mild-mannered and amiable look on his face—which perhaps didn’t reassure her any about his intellectual capacity, but at least didn’t inflame the situation further. _Is she right, AIVAS?_

_That this is dangerous? Yes, she’s quite right to be concerned. But depending on how my simulations go—if they do as they were ordered and give us access to the navigation computers so we can run tests and assess—we do have a chance._

“I _refuse_ to _die_ because some jumped-up backwater _nomad_ thinks he has the magic to do something with his jump set that _nobody_ has _ever_ been able to do in the history of known civilization!”

AIVAS said, “There are Illyrican adaptors that have been known to work.”

The pilot whirled towards him. “Not _once_ have they worked for jump drives of completely _different_ make and model!”

Captain Thorne looked at Robinton without comment, and then at its pilot, and then back to Robinton. The pilot looked at Robinton too.

Robinton said mildly, as he propped up a bulkhead with his shoulder, “I’ve had this conversation with Admiral Naismith already, and he trusts I can do what I’ve promised. But if it turns out he’s promised me something he’s unable to follow through on, I will take my business elsewhere.”

The idea of disappointing the beloved Admiral Naismith made the pilot twist in her shoes, regardless of how ardently she was of the opinion that what Robinton wanted to do was utter madness. “Or you could give me the coordinates, and have me take you there,” the pilot said. “You do realize the ship computer will save each jump, and your route home will be known regardless of what happens?”

“Perhaps.”

AIVAS said, “We do not intend to kill ourselves or you or to jump blindly. We intend to run simulations first, which is why we requested a fresh computation core, so we could load in some custom navigation software that’s compatible with Master Robinton’s jump set without disrupting your own software and settings. If the simulations fail here, I judge they will also fail elsewhere, and we may consider other options at that time.”

“But not before then,” Robinton said gently.

The pilot and Captain Thorne flickered eyes and subtle expressions at each other, then the pilot deflated in defeat. “Fine. We do have the fresh core. Let me give you access to flash it.”

_They want our simulation data, most likely,_ AIVAS suggested. _Probably at Admiral Naismith’s orders._

Robinton conceded that was probably true. He’d ascertained quickly in his conversation with Admiral Naismith that the monetary payment for his assistance was perfunctory; the real payment the little man was interested in was information. Menolly’s fast-penta-touched assessment concurred.

Although Robinton would expect no less from an undercover agent. He hoped, in the long term, playing nicely with this hidden-in-plain-sight lordling might set the stage for other sorts of information-trading later on. But he wouldn’t know the results of the game unless he committed to playing it…

  


#

  


The jump headset for the Ariel was not at all suitable for hooking any sort of adaptor to, but the chair and headset did adjust for the differing heights of potential pilots, so they were able to bring the headset close to Robinton’s neck to reduce physical distance, and thus input/output lag, as much as possible.

Then AIVAS loaded the programs he’d created, while Robinton settled into the pilot’s chair. The Ariel’s pilot looked sourly on, and Captain Thorne folded their arms over their breasts without comment, seemingly content to wait-and-see. 

The pilot’s chair was uncomfortable, the adaptor at his neck uncomfortable, and Robinton wondered if he’d accidentally break the connection at some point by twitching in discomfort.

_We might need to duct-tape all of this to you,_ the androgynoid said in amusement. _I was hoping Admiral Naismith would assign one of his lesser ships with cockpit designs that are more amenable to our task. Alas, he seems quite interested in us, and this is a fast cruiser not a scout as I’d hoped._

A part of Robinton worried darkly about bringing a twenty-man fast cruiser with weapons into Pernese orbit, and hoped once again the Weyrs could save his misbegotten hide if something went wrong. The logical side of his mind pointed out they needed him in good condition to get home. The anxious side simply didn’t care for logic right now.

Soon enough, AIVAS finished loading the software, and took his chassis to a nearby seat and to all outward appearances, went to sleep. In Robinton’s head, however, they went over the manual for the Ariel, and the main switches, triggers, and buttons in real-time without touching anything. Then AIVAS started up the Ariel’s simulation and training suites, and a menu appeared both in Robinton’s mind, and in screens above which drew Captain Thorne’s eyes.

The simulation options covered in-system piloting, wormhole piloting, and military maneuvering.

They chose _in-system piloting_ first, and Robinton triggered himself into altered-time.

_The implant’s continuing to adapt to you,_ AIVAS said fondly, as the world outside Robinton’s head slowed to less than a crawl.

_Pardon?_

_You voluntarily activated the switch, instead of your involuntarily vitals or the ship itself setting it off._

Robinton pondered this, then waved it away as wasting time, and selected an in-system piloting simulation.

In the time it took Captain Thorne to blink twice, Robinton got them all killed twenty times over. Dramatically.

The Ariel was _odd_. It felt _strange_ and uncanny. Like he was sleepwalking, not flying. The Ariel didn’t fit him like a second skin, not like The Mastersinger Merelan did.

The altered time-sense stopped, and Robinton stared with dismay up at the screens, which lovingly detailed all of their many virtual deaths.

_Let me tinker,_ AIVAS said. And on one of the other monitors, Robinton could see AIVAS connect to the navigation core. Obscure and obfuscated text commands flowed across the screen like water, and the pilot squinted her eyes at it, then stared, trying to comprehend.

A few minutes later, AIVAS was through, and Robinton tried again.

And failed. Again.

So AIVAS tinkered. Again.

Robinton wasn’t sure what Captain Thorne and the pilot had been expecting, but he and AIVAS spent over an hour tinkering, and no matter how hard he tried, Robinton kept leading them to their deaths. And they hadn’t even _touched_ the wormhole simulations yet.

Then AIVAS said, _I wonder…_

_Abruptly,_ the sensor data from the Ariel’s simulation flowed into him properly. And, promptly, he completed sixteen in-system flight simulations without condemning them to fiery deaths, and a seventeenth had them come out intact, but slightly dinged as he’d undocked from a virtual station a tad too fast when Zair had popped out of _between_ in real life and distracted him.

_What did you do that was different?_ Robinton asked.

A warm little chuckle. _One of the libraries in this chassis proved useful. The Ariel is part “sex-bot” now. Or at least, until our altered navigation core is replaced with its usual one._

_Why under the sun did that even work?_ Robinton asked, his mouth quirking in a smile.

_I think the sensory algorithms the Ariel uses are simply old, or not particularly compatible with your brainwaves. Best not to reinvent the wheel if you already have a wheel on hand—or in this case, an electronic-neural sensory-processing library. The library itself handles the handoff of information to the brain-interface…it doesn’t particularly care if the sensory information comes from a humanoid chassis, a jump ship, or a robotic feline. It simply repackages it into a human-understandable signal much better than the default library did._

“What changed?” Captain Thorne inquired.

“The sensory input from the ship wasn’t being processed correctly,” Robinton said, echoing what AIVAS told him. “Now it is, and we’re no longer wallowing about like a gorged wherry.”

AIVAS said, through a speaker in the familiar baritone voice he used at Landing or when speaking through The Mastersinger Merelan’s speakers, “Master Robinton is no longer juggling in mittens.”

Both Captain Thorne and the pilot jumped.

“Who’s that?” the pilot asked.

Robinton couldn’t turn his head to look at AIVAS’s “sleeping” chassis, but he did glance its way and said, “That’s AIVAS’ normal voice.”

AIVAS said, still through the speakers, still a baritone, “I wanted to do a com check.” Then the chassis opened its eyes, and his voice, higher and lower from androgynoid and speakers at the same time, said, “Everything seems fine. If you don’t mind, Captain Thorne, once we’re under way we’ll need to access coms throughout the ship, and not just here. In case of any emergency—which we thoroughly do not _intend_ to have happen, but it’s appropriate to expect the unexpected—we may need to suddenly warn for maneuvers.”

“Fair enough,” Captain Thorne said, and leaned over to punch some buttons to authorize it.

After Robinton did more tests and the both of them felt comfortable with the results, they moved onto wormhole piloting simulations. As with the in-system piloting, Robinton sent them to their virtual deaths, over and over and over again. More times than he’d sent The Mastersinger Merelan to her death, which concerned him, if only because it suggested his performance was below what it needed to be in this ship. He did not like getting _worse_ , especially now that he had more real-world experience at this point than he had had previously.

Two hours of this later—much, much longer by Robinton’s perception, as he’d activated his altered time-sense several times—AIVAS said, _I was trying to preserve more of the native code. I’ve learned quite a bit from it, but perhaps that’s not the route to take._

In Robinton’s mind, and on the screen, the native simulation menu for the Ariel vanished. A moment later, as white-text-on-black streamed across the secondary screen, the Eridani simulation menu he was familiar with appeared.

He selected the wormhole suite of simulations.

The first one loaded. The world outside of the data the implant fed him faded away, and he went through the now-familiar procedure of setting up his route.

At first, everything was nominal. The parts of the simulation where he was piloting in-system, aligning himself with the wormhole. Those went as expected.

But when he entered the simulated wormhole—

—things _separated_ , just a bit.

Visual data ghosted itself, colors swimming after one another. The hum, the _song_ he heard, that he _conducted_ , was no longer the sum of its parts, but simply, the parts layered on top of each other, never quite mingling or resounding together as one as they should.

And the _now_ , which he dimly felt even as his limbs were automatically paralyzed—

—the now, there was something, layered, he didn’t have _words_ …could you taste numbers? Could déjà vu have a scent? Strong, then stronger, and—

—he felt himself turn green and his implant kicked him out of the simulation.

Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against the pilot’s chair, against the implant adaptor, which was still connected, and forced himself to take slow, steady breaths so he wouldn’t hurl his last meal all over the ship.

Zair, who’d been frolicking around elsewhere, as curious about the twenty-man crew as they were about him, came out of _between_ above them, chittering, then landed in his lap and took Robinton’s shirt in his little paws and bunted his head against his chin worriedly.

“Do you need a medic?” Captain Thorne asked.

Swallowing carefully, lest his stomach take speaking as an opportunity to rebel, Robinton said, “No, thank you.” He opened his eyes a slit, looked at the screens above. It said, _Simulation aborted by pilot_. “AIVAS? I thought the implant is supposed to suppress space-sickness.”

“Yes,” AIVAS said through the speakers. The chassis appeared to be “sleeping” again. “It did. The nausea was initiated by another part of your system.” _If I’m not mistaken, that was mentasynth-induced nausea. VERY interesting. I think you were experiencing your body in overlap. Perhaps sensory leak through Zair, or through something coming through my chassis, so your brain thought “you” were in three or four places at once—as your physical body, the ship-body, my chassis, and Zair’s body_. One of AIVAS’s significant pauses. _Given the other data streams coming in were NOT being properly combined into a single experience, it seems probable something like that happened. It is still interesting you experienced mentasynth-induced nausea, however._

_That was the sickness riders get when they pass too close to each other when traveling_ between _whens?_

A hesitation. _Unless you have doubled or tripled yourself in this when, I don’t believe so, although it may have the same underlying mechanism, where a single mind has trouble syncing the physical experience of having multiple bodies. Plus, we know you don’t emerge in the future for a few more days still._ A pause. _We should not schedule any piloting or jumps during those few hours of overlap, just to be safe._

Robinton waved agreement to AIVAS, and closed his eyes again.

Eventually the nausea subsided.

_I am suppressing it._

“Mm,” Robinton said, and reached down to caress Zair and reassure him. “I am perfectly fine, my handsome bronze fellow. Just an upset stomach. If only I had a spot of Benden wine to settle it, eh?” But he’d left all of that on the ship, for Lytol. _He_ was going back towards the source; Lytol was not, and had to make do with what they’d brought with.

“You drink on duty?” the pilot, still observing, asked in horror.

Robinton gave her a come-now-don’t-be-silly look. “No. I swear this implant will make me permanently sober, more’s the pity. The Mastervintner will think he’s lost his touch! _Master Robinton_ — _abstaining_ from wine! _Ha!_ In some lights, I’d accuse you of cursing me, AIVAS.”

“Think of it as preserving your liver, Harper,” AIVAS said. The second screen above still streamed with symbols as AIVAS wrote and adjusted code. “Or what’s left of it. At least it’s in better shape than your heart was.”

The Harper had never contemplated what function a liver had, nor had ever particularly cared about the status of his own, and after a moment of contemplation, decided not to start now. Yawning, he settled in to wait on AIVAS’ next instructions.

_Try again_ , AIVAS eventually said.

Robinton gathered Zair up on a hand and deposited him into AIVAS’ lap. “Stay out of trouble, you,” he admonished the bronze, wagging a finger at him. Zair regarded AIVAS’ inert form curiously, then settled down as he was told, resting his chin on one of the chair’s arms.

Starting up the simulation again, Robinton was able to dive through the wormhole, and with relief, he conducted its song without a hitch.

Until he exited it.

All of the status indictors and even the simulated vision he program fed into his brain indicated that all had gone perfectly well, but _again_ he felt that sense of nausea, sense of displacement. And for an instant—

—he was Menolly, walking with the little Admiral, amused and bemused by the young man’s cheery, near-manic manner—

—he was Silvina, firmly wrapping hands so much like his own around a bowl, and sending Camo off with a gentle shove—

—he was Master Fandarel, thinking of his children and grandchildren, including Jancis, not realizing just how far Robinton had taken her away from him, completely clueless—

(Robinton’s heart ached with the knowledge that he _must_ return Jancis back home, eventually!)

—he was D’ram, feeling so alone with both Lytol and Robinton gone, feeling _frightened_ that they might not ever come back, that AIVAS may not wake up, and he’d have to deal with people from the stars boiling unexpectedly into the system one day all by himself, with no guidance whatsoever.

_We’re safe, and I’m returning!_ Robinton couldn’t help but cry. _I need your help!_

—he was Camo, living permanently in the now with no worry for the past or for the future, feeding the ever-changing number of pretties, enjoying their song and beauty and friendliness.

—he was Merelan, hands clenched in her skirts, hair whipped about in the wind, wondering, _wondering_ if—

The last shocked him so much that his eyes popped open, and the accelerated time of the implant ceased.

He was here, in _this_ now, in _this_ foreign ship…doing _what_ now?

A _transit successful_ message stared down at them. Not a hundred of them, or fifty, or even ten. Just _one_ successful simulation.

Why did he feel…bewildered?

Then he felt an odd, but fierce emotion. One he’d never exactly felt before, one he wasn’t sure he could name—much like Zair sometimes felt things that were clearly emotions, but not ones humans might feel, and he sometimes picked up on those.

This emotion was…it was…

It was the feeling of a puzzle piece fitting in. Or of being _one_ with his _goal-people-being_. Of having taken a step down the right _goal-path-being_. Or of—

The being that had these strange emotions felt them reflected back at itself, and Robinton realized something that made AIVAS _AIVAS_ had slipped through the filter that protected Robinton’s mind from the AI’s.

This thing he felt was the emotion of _goal-people-being_. Of an action that was assigned to him being completed, and thus completing/creating him. As if completing the goals that mankind set for him was satisfactory and self-creating in one.

Robinton sat quietly thinking about this, and eventually said, _Did you discover something?_

_Yes. We discovered the right simulation uncovers aspects of your natural mentasynth abilities that are used for wormhole jumps. And that you have a synesthetic crossing-of-wires in your brain that activates your telepathy when certain wormhole-related triggers in your implant are activated in slightly non-standard ways, no fast-penta needed. I SEE why I could not use the native software, now; your implant depends on your mentasynth abilities to carry out some tasks, which the native software doesn’t tap._

_I didn’t feel any of THAT on our ship._

_No, of course not. That was an Eridani ship, designed specifically for the EXACT implant and AI-partner you have. This ship, on the other hand, requires new adaptations on our part. It was invented long after our Eridani technology was. We have to learn many things about it, and from it._ Another emotion—the joy of knowing where and what to calculate next.

_AIVAS?_ Robinton said, trying to reflect that emotion back at the AI too, with an appended query.

_This may be exactly what I need to understand the data Zair going_ between _gives us. As your brain, and your implant, runs these simulations and creates understanding of the Ariel, it exposes to me more information about how mentasynth and headset technology is expected to act, according to the Eridani. I get a counter dataset to contrast with the native one. Which gives me the tools I need to potentially devise a way to take us_ between _._

Pulling at his lip pensively, Robinton said, _Should we stretch this training out then? Give you more time for study?_

_Yes._

Very well. “I think,” Robinton announced to the room, letting out a small yawn that was not at all faked. “That we’ve been at this for several hours, and I’m getting tired, and I would like to end this on a positive note,” and he gestured at the successful simulation on the screen. “Perhaps we can pick this up tomorrow, Captain Thorne?”

A nod. “I will show you to your quarters. I warn you, they are small. This is no pleasure vessel.”

“As long as I have a place to lay my head,” and here Robinton reached up and detached himself from both the adaptor and the ship, “I am as pleased as can be.”

“Would you like to join me for dinner, Diplomat? You must be hungry as well as tired.”

Given the herm’s skepticism, Robinton hadn’t been anticipating such an invite, but warmly accepted. “I would love to, Captain Thorne.”

And so Robinton rose from the pilot’s chair, tucked his adaptor into his shirt, and let himself be led away deeper into the ship.

  


#

  


As Captain Thorne escorted them, Robinton took the opportunity to make small-talk, slowly adapting a more Betan-like accent as he did so, which he hoped the Captain wouldn’t take for mockery but as a way to lessen at least one communication gap between them.

Thorne was never impolite, but had a way of diverting most of Robinton’s probes. Despite this, Robinton detected a deep admiration and respect for Admiral Naismith that shone through whenever the Admiral was mentioned, reminding Robinton of the way Sebell and Menolly would sometimes light up when he entered the room. Admiral Naismith was a charismatic leader, with loyal subordinates.

The room Robinton was assigned for the duration of the journey back home was small, perhaps an eighth of the size of his quarters on the Mastersinger Merelan, or half the size of the smaller quarters there. His modest bag and gitar case were waiting for him on the bunk.

Thorne left after indicating the expected dinner time, and Robinton and AIVAS stood there in the artificial light as the door slid shut.

Then Robinton said, “You were not assigned a bunk. I thought they believed you were a ‘cyborg’?”

“I believe Captain Thorne believes, not incorrectly, that this chassis is a Betan sex-bot.”

And therefore wouldn’t afford it any honor. Probably not because Betans were uptight about sex, but because a robot was not a person. And a foreign man whose people did not naturally have herms running around with a herm sex-bot was likely quite suspicious to a Betan herm who dealt with gawking outsiders on a regular basis.

_Harper,_ the AI said. _They are most assuredly listening in through the speakers. We should not say anything out loud that we do not want them to hear._

Robinton nodded understanding. _Should I ask them for a room for you?_

_If, for reasons of pride or honor, you would prefer it, you can. It does not matter either way to me._

He was a bit offended that AIVAS was not accorded the same courtesy he himself had been, but at the same time, he also feared offending AIVAS by _insisting_ another room was assigned to him. They literally shared a body. Such irrational behaviors could only cause harm.

He sighed, and sat down on the bunk and pulled from his bag the one formal outfit he’d packed. AIVAS also sat on the bunk, there being nowhere else to sit in the room.

Stripping off the jumpsuit—AIVAS helped with a tug when it got stuck around his arms again—only took a minute, and donning a formal trouser-and-tunic combination a few more. The rank-knot of Masterdiplomat kept catching his eye as being suitably wrong, mostly because the blue was too pale to be harper blue, and the lavender and pink were out-of-place to a hindbrain used to blue and white colors. But that went into its proper place, too, and at least it was a familiar, comforting weight twisted about his arm.

Having run out of things to fuss with—his hair was still hopeless—Robinton took out his gitar, and tuned it. Then he played a few chords, largely at random, until he heard a familiar procession and suddenly his meandering strumming turned into the opening of the Question Song.

The opening bars smoothly turned into words. In his baritone voice, in the minor key, he sang, “Gone away, gone ahead. Echoes away, gone unanswered. Empty, open, dusty, dead. Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?”

The small room did not have good acoustics; his gitar and voice fell flat around him. Still, he twiddled around with the song a bit, hoping to improve the sound of a dead song that had served its purpose and only continued to exist as an unsettling historical touchstone.

_Are you sure?_ AIVAS asked.

Robinton quirked an eyebrow, and continued to play.

Taking the next verse, AIVAS sang in his high tenor, “Have they flown to some new Weyr, where cruel Thread some others fear? Are they _worlds_ away from here?”

Given how he hoped to beg the Weyrs to send people into the past to help them in the present, that line _was_ unusually pertinent to the situation at hand.

Eerily so.

_ARE they worlds away from here?_

His fingers improvising readily around the strange melody line, Robinton wondered if there might be a use for the Question song in some other form.

But it wasn’t an appropriate song for a dinner with Captain Thorne. Thorne was no F’lar, and they were dealing with changes far stranger than the start of the Ninth Pass—as unthinkable as that might seem.

He shifted key pensively, wondering what sort of music might soothe the soul of a Betan herm who ranked as Captain in the Dendarii fleet. He had no idea, really, so he continued to work his way through traditional teaching ballads until AIVAS informed him it was time to leave for dinner.

  


#

  


Robinton swirled a rose-colored wine around in his glass, a glass which qualified as a wineglass to both him and the herm, to his surprise. A common cultural touchstone. The color of the wine was delicate, and the nose contained notes he’d never encountered in a wine before, not even in the quirky little personal projects stray vintners liked to bribe him with.

Of course, he wasn’t going to say _that_ to the Captain. He kept his face reserved, swirled once, swirled twice, and then took a sip. Flavor burst around his tongue, a tad young to his palette, but for all he knew of Betan rosé wines, perhaps that was characteristic. And like before, he tasted hints of things he’d never before encountered in a wine.

He glanced at the wine _bottle_ , of all things. Made of glass. Pern, he had learned, was unique in storing its wine in skins—the vestigial second stomachs of wherries, actually. The rest of the Nexus had no wherries, so made do with glass bottles, cans, and other galactic innovations.

Such as Beta’s underground farms. How _did_ one grow grapes underground, after all? He posed the question to the Captain.

“Hydroponics,” Captain Thorne said, and cut a piece of vat-grown meat.

“And what is that?” Robinton asked.

“A bunch of tubes and plastic that food grows out of. I can’t say I ever studied it. We have a small hydroponic setup here, more for air quality than food, but in a pinch we could convert it to supplement our rations. I can show you, but you’ll have to rely on one of our specialists for a scientific explanation.”

“I’d enjoy seeing it,” And Robinton took another sip of wine. Not as good as Benden wine, but certainly a promise of surprises-yet-to-come as Robinton sampled the wines of the Nexus.

AIVAS had not (overtly) accompanied Robinton to dinner; they both believed his absence might put Captain Thorne more at ease, and it seemed to have worked, to Robinton’s resignation and AIVAS’ amusement. Zair, unsurprisingly, acted as an anti-AIVAS, loosening the herm’s tongue, and after watching Zair pop out of _between,_ the herm said, “How does it _do_ that?”

“Go _between_? I have no idea. I don’t believe even the dragonmen understand how _between_ works, only that it does. He pictures a destination in his mind, and as long as it’s accurate, he goes _between_ and pops out at his destination.”

“The dragonmen? What are those?”

“Do Betans not have the myth of ‘dragons’?”

“Myths, yes.”

“Perhaps you can see how Zair here resembles one, then. Now, imagine if Zair was bigger. Much, much bigger. And ridable. Even the smallest can fit several adults on its back. We named them ‘dragons’ due to the resemblance to myths, although they are native to Pern, and not Terrestrial at all.”

“Do they breathe fire?” the herm asked, a sly smile spreading across its face, as if expecting to catch Robinton out on something.

“They do, actually,” Robinton said.

The sly smile vanished. “They do?”

“Oh, yes. That’s how they sear thread from the sky. Thread,” Robinton hastened, because he’d learned that the word was quite silly-sounding to non-Pernese, “—is a voracious fungus-like organism that falls from the sky and devours everything organic. Plants, animals. Plastic. The dragonmen, who live in Weyrs, ride their dragons to flame it from the sky, so it doesn’t consume all our crops and starve us to death.”

The Betan shook its head. “You’re lying to me,” it said, in complete disregard that such a blatant accusation might offend a man of Robinton’s Diplomatic status.

But Robinton was expecting it, and slowly nodded his understanding of the herm’s disbelief, his own sly smile appearing. “Before the Ninth Pass started, many Pernese would have agreed with you, Captain Thorne. Thread? _Returned?_ Preposterous!” and Robinton banged his fist on the table, imitating one of the old, crotchety Lords he’d dealt with in that era. Promptly assuming an irritating, whining, nasally voice from one particular Lord he’d dealt with back then, he complained, “The Weyrs exist to bleed us dry of tithe like parasites! They steal our boys and our woman, leaving us with nobody to work the fields or tend the babies!” Robinton chuckled direly. “Oh, they changed their tune once thread started falling from the sky again after hundreds of turns. It comes from a roving planet, you see. We call it the Red Star—not a star, but until Master Wansor reinvented telescopes, it was difficult to tell. When its orbit comes close to Pern, it drags thread into Pern’s gravity, and the thread passes through the atmosphere, which scours away its protective pod, and then it falls upon our lands.”

“A bioweapon?” Captain Thorne said.

“AIVAS thinks not. Life on Pern has evolved to cope with it, enhancements such as the ability to go _between_ have appeared, the eyes of many species have adapted to detect it, and that sort of evolutionary change takes time. The Red Star was captured in Rukbat’s orbit long before mankind assumed a form that could be considered _homo sapiens_. The Red Star was probably even once habitable, and threadfall the remnant of an ecosystem that is now extinct. As I understand it—AIVAS has summarized some Survey articles for me—two alien biomes can interact with each other in unexpected ways, such as the worm plague on Sergyar. Thread probably did not proliferate in such an unrelenting, hungry way among life of its own kind, there would have been checks and balances on it that did not, alas, exist in Pern’s ancient habitat.”

Or maybe it _had_ proliferated unchecked, considering every square inch of the Red Star was covered in it, but there was no need to alarm Captain Thorne that Pern was harboring a nasty bioweapon it could rain down on others’ heads at any moment.

“And dragons—they fly around, and breathe fire on it?”

“Indeed.” Robinton gestured at Zair with a flick of his hand. “If I had firestone on me, I’d have Zair demonstrate. Firelizards can flame too.” He’d remember to bring some on his trip back.

Zair, crouching next to Robinton’s plate, contemplating whether he should steal meat from Robinton’s plate, caught wind of Robinton’s talk about thread, and his faceted eyes turned reddish and started whirling faster.

“Shh,” Robinton soothed, brushing Zair with the backs of his fingers. “We are talking in the abstract. There’s no thread here.”

Despite the reassurances, Zair became somewhat agitated, and flew around the room, checking corners and cracks for evidence of thread, before finding a potted plant to stand guardian over.

“I think he’s confused because there’s been no Falls since we left the planet. As I said before, it’s the middle of the Ninth Pass, thread is falling very frequently at this point, and the Weyrs are working all-out to protect us and our crops so we don’t all become extinct. Zair occasionally joins in, flies in formation with Ruth. Their protective instinct is strong.”

Zair piped at him half-worried, half-angry, and Robinton took a piece of vat-meat from his plate and offered it. “Come here, I saw you eyeing this. Have a taste.”

Piping in emphasis of his earlier comments, Zair eventually forsook his potted plant and flew back to the table, and ate the meat from Robinton’s fingertips. Captain Thorne watched avidly, its cynicism gone, its eyes alight.

Then Zair spat out the morsel and stared up at Robinton like he’d asked the bronze to eat someone’s old boot leather. Betrayal quivered from snout to forked tail-tip.

“Excuse him,” Robinton said quickly. “He’s very intelligent, for a mere beast, but not always civilized. Not like a true dragon is civilized. _Zair_ , this is food. Don’t spit it out, _eat_ it.” He picked up the tooth-marked morsel and offered it again.

Zair chomped the piece a few times, then spat it out again.

Thorne said, “I’ve heard it’s not uncommon for animals to reject vat-grown meat unless its expressly formulated for their palate. Cat-food manufacturers on Beta take care to mention in their ads that cats will actually eat it.”

Robinton had a moment of panic that this journey might end with an emaciated firelizard that still refused to eat vat-meat. Then he remembered how voracious firelizards could get, and concluded it was much more likely Zair, the spoiled bronze he was, was just being picky. Shells, he’d once watched Zair eat a half-rotten fish with all evident enjoyment. It was likely Zair would get used to the meat here, if he could stomach _that!_

Still, Robinton offered Zair a bit of bread, which the bronze accepted readily and ate without issue, as if hydroponic-grown bread was different from vat-grown meat. “I love you, but I don’t understand you sometimes,” Robinton said. Then he said, “Do Betans keep pets? I saw a feline when I was on the planet, but it was at a little Gather stall we bought snacks at, so perhaps it was keeping vermin away. A working animal.”

“I have a hamster,” Captain Thorne said, then looked slightly abashed that they had admitted this.

Robinton had no idea what a hamster was. The word sounded somewhat like “monster”, which was foreboding. “May I meet it?” he asked, simply to be polite. He wasn’t so sure he wanted to meet a monster, he had plenty of things to worry about on his plate already.

Captain Thorne looked like it was kicking itself for telling Robinton about its “hamster”, but eventually said, “If you wish.”

Robinton had the distinct feeling that AIVAS was silently laughing at the herm’s discomfort. He sent a query to the AI, but the AI did not respond.

Bringing his wine along, Robinton followed Captain Thorne out of the small dining area, and a few paces down the hallway into what eventually was revealed to be the herm’s personal quarters. They were larger than the ones he was assigned to, and had a faint floral scent of some perfume Robinton was unfamiliar with. Some sort of music automatically started playing from the com when they entered, and Robinton stood listening to it curiously, until Captain Thorne motioned him over to a small, clear box.

“He’s in here. Inside this tube, see?”

Robinton blinked, and eventually concluded a stray tuft of fur wasn’t some fallen-off discard from Thorne’s bedding, but an _entire_ living animal.

Astonished, Robinton said, as Zair peered down from his shoulder, “I’ve never seen anything so _small_ with fur! Is it some sort of insect?” Several types of insects on Pern were furry.

Captain Thorne gave Robinton an amused look. “No, it’s a mammal, like you and me. It’s from Earth.” Its movements suddenly purposeful, it took off the top of the clear box, and reached in and pulled a little wriggling furry animal out. “Hold out your hand, Diplomat.”

Robinton did, and the little furry thing was deposited in it. “Why, it’s not a monster at all!” he said in surprise and wonder.

The herm snorted a small laugh at the idea.

Examining it closely as it wriggled about his hand, Robinton concluded it _was_ truly a mammal, and he found himself quite shocked that something so much smaller than even a newborn kitten could be a mammal and not some odd hairy Southern grub or something. “Is it a kit of its kind? Will it get bigger?”

“No, it’s completely grown.”

Zair seemed quite shocked too, and as Robinton petted the small creature as it walked around the long palms of the Harper’s hands, Zair leaned closer, and closer—

Robinton only caught the bronze’s intent at the last instant, and barked, “ZAIR!” at the same time the firelizard lunged. Luckily, he also caught Zair by a hind leg, and the furry thing in his other hand, instincts honed by millennia of evolution, tumbled out of Robinton’s grasp to scurry into a corner and hide.

Captain Thorne immediately went after it, and Robinton chided Zair.

“No! I offered you perfectly good food and you turned your nose up at it! You will _not_ eat Captain Thorne’s hamster! Do you hear me?”

Zair made a soft, pleading sound.

“I will not accept your whining or your big, soulful eyes. I _insist_ on an answer! Do you _understand_ me? The hamster, the furry thing, is _not_ food, and _not_ to be eaten!” Robinton projected an image of the hamster, alongside with an image of the Harper Hall coops that also had tasty small animals that firelizards also liked to try to eat. “No eating! Never!”

Zair whined again—but, conspicuously for an honest creature like him, did _not_ agree _not to eat_.

It ended up taking a good five minutes of demanding and cajoling, interspersed with fierce emotional condemnations of eating things like hamsters, before Zair gave in and Robinton could tell, genuinely, that Zair would not touch the creature, ever. During that time, Captain Throne put his hamster away, and stood with its arms crossed somewhat defensively over its breasts.

Once Zair was settled, and sulking, but no longer interested in eating hamsters, Robinton said, “I apologize quite deeply, Captain Thorne. Neither Zair nor I have ever seen an Earth creature like that—I had no idea his first instinct would be to try to eat it. Please accept my apologies.”

“Can he go _between_ to get in here?” the herm asked.

Robinton paused, and said, “Yes—but the hamster’s enclosure is too small, Zair won’t go _between_ into it. He would get himself embedded, and it would kill him. But you will want to make sure the top is secured in a way that his little hands,” and Robinton held out one of Zair’s paws, which were human-like in shape and dexterity, “Are unable to get it off. Firelizards are much stronger than they look, and can manipulate human latches as well as a small child can.” Like dragons, firelizards also seemed to be able to carry as much as they _thought_ they could carry.

“What about a force field?”

A technological protection they didn’t have on Pern. Robinton brightened. “Yes, that will work.”

The herm immediately found some sort of force field device, and arranged it around the hamster enclosure.

“How intelligent is he, exactly?” Captain Thorne said when they were done, and quietly but firmly escorting them from its quarters.

“Oh, quite. But they’re a bit like felines—willful and inclined to do what they please. They are as intelligent as a small child, perhaps three to five years old. But they tend to spend most of that brainpower gossiping with other firelizards when they’re around. They’re a social species.” Robinton paused. “But he gave me his word, I felt it. He won’t harm your hamster. Other people’s small pets—I’m not so sure. But he understands your pet is special to you, and that you’re a person of rank and your pets are not to be touched.”

“Thank you for being quick in restraining him.”

The Harper inclined his head, and took a bracing sip of his wine as they arrived back at the dining area.

Although the herm was quiet and thoughtful in the aftermath of the near-accident at first, ultimately it seemed like the incident with the firelizard and hamster had somehow opened things up between them, an adrenaline-filled misstep that hadn’t actually resulted in harm done. Although Captain Thorne still wasn’t much inclined to talk about Beta Colony—too boring, it said with a wave of its hand—it did have opinions on many of the other worlds of the Nexus, as well as some wines and other spirits for Robinton to sample.

Later on that evening, after the spirits had relaxed them both, Robinton brought out his gitar, and played for the herm, which seemed to impress them indeed, the engaged look of a person who loved music but didn’t much play themselves crossing their face. 

Naturally, Robinton did not play the Question Song he’d been fiddling around with earlier, but did treat Captain Thorne with the unabridged version of Moreta’s Ride, and somehow that took a turn into a fascinating discussion about Culture Heroes and religion, and Robinton found it surprisingly difficult to defend against the idea that perhaps Moreta wasn’t a just Culture Hero but a semi-Goddess figure. Mostly because he wasn’t exactly sure what a goddess was, and the more he tried to argue, the more the herm took the very examples he gave and turned them around on him. The concept of a goddess had been explained to him, of course, but he was still in the process of wrapping his head around the idea.

He engaged the herm in this discussion best he could though, through talk of gods and goddesses and mythology and heroes and druids, and by the end of their night, found their discussion productive indeed.

  


#

  


Late that “night”, Robinton finally took his leave and returned to the quarters assigned to him. AIVAS’s chassis was laying on the bunk, but began to move as he entered.

Robinton waved him back into place, and shed his tunic and clothes, hanging them up neatly in the tiny little closet. The gitar went there as well.

Then, swaying slightly because his tolerance to wine very much was not as robust as it had been before his long implant-illness, he climbed over AIVAS and positioned himself between the androgynoid and the wall, pulling the furs up over them both.

He felt strangely safe this way, like a boy in a hideaway. Perhaps because the bunk in these quarters, like many beds at home, was set into the wall and had an overhang.

AIVAS did not say anything, but put his arms around Robinton, and let Robinton put his around him, and Zair crawled between, and very soon, Robinton fell into a deep, tired slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, finally posting something I wrote last summer!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oops.

**Chapter Sixteen**

The next day, Captain Thorne seemed much less interested in hovering when Robinton returned to run more simulations, although when Zair kept getting in the way, minx that he was, the Captain offhandedly offered to take Zair off of Robinton’s hands.

To the herm’s surprise, Robinton rose and deposited the bronze in the herm’s arms, and demonstrated where to scratch.

Bronze and Captain thus occupied, Robinton slipped back into the pilot’s seat, and made the annoying connection between adaptor, jump implant, and headset. AIVAS had once again left its chassis in another seat, and the regular pilot had also returned to oversee everything.

Once AIVAS had determined no tampering had happened to his code overnight, Robinton selected another simulation, and triggered it.

Again, the simulated wormhole transit completed successfully, but on exit—

—he felt his mind split, or reach out to, several people in quick succession.

Menolly again, feeding her firelizards, having the same troubles with vat-meat that he’d had. She looked up and had just enough time to delight in his presence before his mind jumped away.

Brekke, interacting with Piemur and Lytol and missing F’nor all the more for it.

Lessa, soaking wet from her swim with Ramoth in the weyrbowl lake. Like Menolly, Lessa _noticed_ him—

—but he was whisked away before any confrontation or truths came out, and found himself as his mother again, walking to a Gather but feeling fatigued by the modest bag on their shoulder.

Then his implant kicked him out of the simulation, and a _successful_ message hung on the screens above.

They spent a lazy, but odd, morning slowly doing these simulations as AIVAS tweaked and modified, sometimes to the better, sometimes very much to the worse. At one point Captain Thorne appeared and questioned the pilot, asking for a morning status update, and the pilot frowned and reported that the simulations were mostly successful, but she wasn’t familiar with this “Eridani” system and would have preferred to see some of the native tests run clean, too.

AIVAS said, through the speakers, “I could pretend to have us pass the native simulation tests, but they don’t interact with a critical part of Robinton’s implant, so I’d simply be gaming the test, or at the very least rewriting it and putting a graphic skin over it so you feel it’s from the same suite of tests. The Eridani tests are running true, and correctly giving us reports that are accurate when an Eridani-style jump pilot and headset running on Illyrican hardware and the specifications of this exact ship are making simulated jumps. Getting this right is too important to worry about what logo is on the test.”

“What do you think, Diplomat?” the Captain asked.

“The tests are running almost as clean as the ones on my ship. We’re doing iterations to get rid of the sensory ghosting.”

The pilot said, “The results don’t indicate any sensory desynchronization.”

Robinton nodded. “It’s not severe enough to prevent me from completing the wormhole simulation, but it is unusual, and we’re worried something that’s not perfect but still in tolerance during a simulation may go out of tolerance during an actual jump.”

“I don’t understand how _partial_ desynchronization is possible, or wouldn’t show on tests,” the pilot muttered, but let them get back to their work.

AIVAS, as far as Robinton could tell, was very happy. The moments Robinton had, of skipping across other people’s minds, also brought him in closer contact with AIVAS periodically, feeling alien things he had to struggle to put words to. The _building-self-from-completed-tasks_ joy happened now and again, as did the _now-I-can-focus-on-waiting-tasks-because-I-learned-something_ emotion.

Truly, AIVAS was a being of intellect and mind. He craved new experiences—or perhaps not _craved_ , that specific emotion didn’t exactly exist. But he was driven towards data-gathering, and experiences were data.

Robinton reached over and patted the androgynoid on the knee, then squeezed it, providing a tactile experience. AIVAS touched the hand with his fingertips, as if he wanted to explore it but knew such a thing was inappropriate given the current context.

Lunch passed, with a simple meal taken in the ship galley, full of foreign tastes and textures, but Robinton’s efforts to chat with the crew came up against repeated veiled resistance, in part, he thought, because Planetary Diplomat was a rank they were taught to take Very Seriously, even if Pern was an unknown backwater. He regretted not having Swift or Piemur with him, someone of lesser rank he could send around to hear the gossip. Right now he was the Captain’s Problem from their points of view, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to break through that perception no matter how winsomely he smiled.

But what was done was done, so he returned to the pilot’s chair and continued tests with AIVAS.

Nearing the end of the “day”, AIVAS said, _I believe we are ready to do a rapid set of simulations. The psychic “ghosting” seems to be minimal now, although I wish I could eliminate it. I also have another store of data to analyze._

Robinton, very bored at this point once the mental contacts he’d experienced earlier had all but ceased after AIVAS had tweaked them out of existence, perked up. _How many?_

_As many as you can handle, until it kicks you out._

So Robinton submerged himself in a heavy suite of simulations.

#

One-hundred seventeen simulations he completed successfully, and during those, two brief contacts with Menolly, where he tried to convey he _was_ running simulations, and not to worry, and that he loved her.

Then a series of fifty failures.

Those turned out not to be his fault; AIVAS still had to tweak things for certain types of wormholes. The suite of failures he’d had were related to the lag time that the adaptor introduced. It was in tolerance for other scenarios, but not this one.

As AIVAS fixed that, Robinton opened his eyes, and found Captain Thorne and the pilot murmuring to one another and staring at the screens.

“Questions?” he asked.

The pilot said, “Do you usually do this number of simulations in a go?”

“No,” Robinton said. “When I trained for The Mastersinger Merelan, I did over a thousand simulation runs in the course of a few days. We’re far behind that rate, I was completing, what—two-hundred or three-hundred simulated jumps in a session, AIVAS?”

“Roughly.”

The pilot didn’t say anything to that, and AIVAS indicated that they were ready for another go.

Robinton completed another one-hundred and fifty-five simulated jumps, all successful.

But the _last_ one—

He dreamt, just for a moment, that he lived in a world again, a nostalgic world, that hadn’t existed for turns. Potted plants decorated holds, that dangerous _green_ literally on doorsteps! Music wafted through the Harper Hall, which was decorated with furniture that’d long been shifted to other rooms or broken by rambunctious Apprentices. Rugs that were threadbare in the present, were bright and soft.

And beside him—

The implant dumped him out of the simulation, and for a moment, Robinton struggled against tears, against the sense that things were _so, so_ different now, and he was _drowning_ , the water was up to his nose and he was _paddling, paddling_ hard, and it wouldn’t be _enough_ …

_I think this is enough for today,_ AIVAS said gently. _Tomorrow, we go home._

Robinton swallowed against the lump in his throat. Yes, tomorrow he’d use a _mechanical implant in his brain_ to sail a _ship from the stars_ captained by _a hermaphrodite_. How comforting!

(He didn’t mean for his thoughts to be spiteful and antagonistic towards the alienness of it all. AIVAS, thankfully, did not hold anything against him.)

He knew what his sire might say if he learned Robinton was neck-deep in such things. But he rather thought his mother might have words of concern, too. He could nearly hear them.

Perhaps naming his ship after her hadn’t been the bright idea he’d thought it was. Tied his thoughts to the nostalgic past, and a world that couldn’t even conceive of thread returning, much less AIVAS or jump ships. He needed to stay focused on the bright future he was trying to grasp.

But he couldn’t, not right now. He wanted to go _home_. Just long enough to rest. Wouldn’t that be okay? Just a little time to rest?

He sucked in a calming breath through his nose. No need to cry about it, or to feel homesickness now. No need at all. He _was,_ after all, _going home_.

Going _home._

Regardless of the strange, strange method.

He kept his thoughts focused on that.

#

The next day, they informed Beta Colony of their intent to exit through the wormhole Robinton had emerged out of only a few days before. Captain Thorne sent a last report to Admiral Naismith, as there would be no regular communication beyond that wormhole.

Then Robinton piloted the Ariel towards it, as the regular pilot sat in another seat and chewed her nails off.

“I have no suicidal tendencies, I assure you,” he told her. “On the contrary, I very much would like to go home.”

But her anxiety wasn’t calmed by his reassurances. Likely, nothing would calm her anxiety other than having her own butt firmly in the pilot’s seat.

Jump pilots were like that, Captain Thorne said, with a pointed look at _him_.

Robinton gave a rueful smile.

Then he locked in their route towards the wormhole.

_Ten._

_Nine._

_Eight._

_Seven._ (Captain Thorne was recommending that even those not susceptible to jump sickness should sit down for this one.) (AIVAS had warned them that Robinton was trained to go into maneuvers on exit, so people should brace for that if the gravity systems didn’t compensate.)

_Six._

_Five._

_Four._

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

_Zero!_

And under Robinton’s command, the necklin rods lit, his vision whited out, and they jumped joyfully through.

And it was _different_. Not different in the disturbing way, of ghosting images and sounds and sensations. Not different in the way that led them to fail fifty simulations in a row.

No, this was a very mundane difference. They were headed _home!_

Robinton conducted his symphony of threads and numbers and sounds and shapes triumphantly, happily, asking the fast cruiser to dance _here_ , dance _there_ , ignore the hints of other outlets because he wanted _that_ one, _right there_ , right there!

And then they emerged out of the wormhole, and flipped about to face the wormhole in case someone magically had followed them through (absolutely nobody had).

And then the weapons went hot, Robinton instinctively flicking at them in a way that had _never_ worked on the weaponless Mastersinger Merelan, and despite a strange joyful exaltation at finding weapons _there_ and _ready_ for him, he shut the fierce emotion down as quickly as it was felt and shut them down before they’d fully become energized, and then flipped their ship back around and put them on a direct path to the next wormhole.

Then he released himself from the altered time-sense, and found himself grinning like a madman, the sheer joy of _flying_ still beating in his chest, chasing the earlier maudlin yearnings for home away.

Zair, catching his emotions, trilled and did dizzying loops around them all.

“Yes, yes, we’re here, Zair!” he said. “Or at least, that’s one wormhole down. Several more to go, and _then_ we’ll be here!”

Captain Thorne got reports from other specialists, who confirmed they had come out of that wormhole exactly where they expected to be, and were on a course towards a mapped wormhole that, while technically mapped by the Betan survey, didn’t go anywhere known in the Nexus.

Robinton let the Captain continue to confirm their whereabouts to ease their mind, and unstrapped himself from the pilot’s chair, and staggered off to his assigned quarters to sleep.

#

The journey back home to Pern was oddly similar in many ways to the first time, aside from the convenient artificial gravity under their feet. It was made up of long hours of waiting as they glided across a system, punctuated by the joyfulness of wormhole travel. And he was learning, too, that each wormhole had a feel, a taste, a unique tessitura. He _remembered_ each of these wormholes, now that he’d been through each of them twice.

Robinton’s days fell into a pattern. For lunch, he took to singing for his meals, entertaining the Captain and crew, and when one of the crew shyly broke protocol and shared a popular song full of strange galactic sounds, Robinton promptly did an arrangement for gitar, which proved to be popular. The younger crew members were in _stitches_ (AIVAS reported) over an old backwater stick singing _that_ song, uncensored, and doing it _well_.

Robinton transforming a popular and widely-played song into something acoustic and doing it _well_ was really the point of awe. Bad covers abounded all over planetary and station nets, and the song was somewhat notorious to begin with, getting groans as equally as enthusiasm, but Robinton breathed an entirely new life into the melody, and that turned out to be the thing that took him from distant foreign government diplomat to popular entertainer _._

“I was a Harper with my Mastery _long_ before I became a diplomat, my friends,” he said cheerfully. Then he asked for someone to give him another song like the first, popular but overexposed and over-played. He wanted a musical _challenge_ , he said with a tooth-bearing grin.

He ended up with over a dozen songs to choose from, and a dozen mercenaries egging him on in various ways.

During “nights”, he also took to dining with Captain Thorne and its right-hand officers more often than not. Most of them were glad Robinton could enliven the long, boring journey, and one jokingly suggested that Admiral Naismith should take to packing a bard along with them for journeys.

“I am a Harper,” Robinton gently corrected. “Alas, not the _Masterharper_ any longer, but I could probably put a word in Master Sebell’s ear, should your Admiral Naismith decide he’d like a Harper or two stationed within his ships. It would certainly make any Journeyman’s career, to compose a ballad about the adventures of Admiral Naismith.” In fact, Sebell would jump at the chance to assign Harpers here, as would he as Masterdiplomat, but he was fairly certain the suggestion was more enthusiastic than practical. Admiral Naismith had struck him as young, but not stupid, and would undoubtedly deduce the secondary purpose of any Piemur assigned to him in time if he hadn’t already.

As they made more jumps, the pilot began to doubt him less and less, and stopped visibly anticipating their future demise as they went through several more wormholes without incident. But AIVAS reported that they were accessing the navigation core, and had made a comment in his hearing that was frustrated about being unable to “un-obfuscate” the coordinates even when they _did_ have a match in the Nexus database of wormholes.

_They’ll eventually realize they have to feed it back into their navigation computer, once our software is removed and theirs reinstated. They’re unused to having to interpret data this raw. Typically their algorithms transform it into another, more elegant state before human eyes see it. And of course, the data they’re seeing that interacts with your mentasynth enhancements looks like noise._

Captain Thorne became more focused and reserved again once they passed the limits of what the Betan Survey had mapped. Robinton overheard comments that the wormhole on the other side of the last mapped wormhole was unknown, and that analysis of its radiation suggested it was quite new, probably forming within the past twenty turns or so.

Robinton, on the other hand, felt a profound sense of relief as they glided silently through space to the mouth of another wormhole helping them on their way to Rukbat and Pern. Home, home, home.

Oh, he’d spent his time here with the Dendarii well, smiling and learning and making music. But, somehow, the little differences in cultures were starting to really, really grate on him. And it wasn’t just one set of differences, but multiple. The Dendarii recruited from all over the Nexus, and just as he figured out the rules for one individual, he ran into another that seemed to turn them on their head.

There were people, for example, who spent their entire _lives_ on stations or in ships, never once setting foot down on a planet. Some of his metaphors fell flat for them. They’d seen images of planets, and seen dramas, and heard stories, but it didn’t quite resonate with them the same.

And it was quite odd, to have his words fall so flat, fail to cause heads to nod, fail for eyes to light up.

It _irritated_ him, and then he wondered if he was a bad person for being so intolerant of others different from himself.

_Culture shock,_ AIVAS advised. _Not even the most tolerant or open-minded is immune to it._

_Will I recover myself?_ Robinton asked. _Is it curable?_

_I think you will most certainly adjust. Just give yourself time. You have been through a great, great deal of change over the past turn, experiencing more than most people experience in a single lifetime._

Robinton took AIVAS at his word, and prepared for their final jump home.

He did have concerns, of course. Of the havoc a light cruiser coming into Pernese space might cause, if Admiral Naismith’s secret Barrayaran roots were going to cause some unforeseen (by the Pernese at least) strife. If Captain Thorne and his crew had orders to play Robinton false. He didn’t _believe_ such things, he had gotten no such sense from Admiral Miles Naismith, nor had Menolly or any of the others, but the stakes were so high that he couldn’t help but fret.

Well, he _could_ help but fret. Simply by putting it out of his mind, and thinking of other things.

Like Menolly.

Who _also_ was very far away. Menolly was not on Pern.

_Sebell_ was.

…and wasn’t _that_ a conversation all on its own! As wrought with delicacy, he suspected, as anything he might bring before the Conclave.

No, no. Don’t think of Menolly (as lovely as she was), or of Sebell. Don’t even think of D’ram, alone by himself at Cove, or the Benden Weyrleader’s reactions when they realized he’d (temporarily) cut them out of something so big, so _significant_.

Think of simple things. The scent of fellis blooms on warm summer air. The strains of music starting, then restarting, from Domick’s rehearsal room.

…the wail of the threadfall siren during a Fall.

It wasn’t that he was _nostalgic_ for _that_. It was, however, very characteristic of the Ninth Pass and home. During the Second Long Interval, before the Ninth Pass had begun, threadfall sirens had sporadically been wound up and tested. Four times or so a year for the more traditional and dutiful Holds. There _were_ disasters other than thread, after all.

Such as that one spectacular storm that had rolled in one autumn, after Kasia had died but before his mother had. With a truly prodigal amount of lightning. The Harper Hall hadn’t sounded its siren, nor the Healer Hall theirs, but a faint wail had come up from Fort Hold, warning the farmers to get inside, stay inside, lest lightning strike them down as the tallest thing in their fields.

And Robinton, much younger then and in fine moody Harper form, had sat on the roof of the Harper Hall, feeling the storm in his _soul_ , questioning whether he should still follow in Master Gennel’s footsteps, or perhaps instead cast all aspirations of Mastery aside, and just go out there and Journey forever, always moving, never allowing himself to connect to anyone or anything. Let his sire _gloat_ about his failure to become a Master. That had never really been _his_ desire anyway, he’d simply wanted to make music and meet people. And the person he’d made music for was _gone_.

The dark mood and dark grief had passed, as all such storms of emotion did, and now he had fond memories of the world in that moment, with the rain, and the wind, and the wet stone scent, and the brilliant lightning.

Rain. _That’s_ what he decided he missed most, after all these days on ships and then the underground Beta Colony. He missed rain. The Harper Hall had had plenty of it, nattering on the slate roof, as did Cove Hold.

So as they prepped to make the final jump through the wormhole, he reminisced about the scent of petrichor, the feel of long, wet hair whipping around his face, the scent of fellis blooms, and sight of brilliant autumn storms rolling across the skies. He was going _home_.

_Ten._

_Nine._

_Eight._

_Seven._

_Six._

_Five._

_Four._

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

And his vision went white, and they rode the music of the wormhole, fierce joy in its song, wild like lightning, spiraling through his heart.

#

No sirens sounded, no warnings flashed, but Robinton knew something was _wrong_ when they exited the wormhole.

_AIVAS?_ he sent worriedly, eyes darting at the screens, and inner-eye summoning navigation data even as he executed his usual flip to check behind the wormhole, worried he might actually _need_ it this time, that the previous times had been practice for _this_.

Nothing was there.

The wormhole was _gone_.

AIVAS was silent for longer than usual. But it didn’t feel like a _social_ pause, of a pause that happened like a rest in a musical score, conveying purposeful weight. It felt like AIVAS was calculating. Calculating so many things that it led to a pause that even an ordinary human could perceive.

Then AIVAS reported, _We’re in the wrong_ when _._

This shocking news didn’t cause Robinton’s calm expression to change; he knew he was being watched, by eyes and cameras. He kept himself outwardly calm, relaxed. _How?_

_I need time to analyze this data to answer that._

So they needed to stall. Which, luckily, was easy to do. Because they were in the wrong _when_ , Pern was not at the expected spot in its orbit, but further away, on the other side of Rukbat. Robinton located it with the ship’s sensors, and locked in a course. The ship did not pick up the Yokohama from here, which suggested it was behind the planet. _Which_ when _are we in?_

AIVAS gave him a date several decades prior, before the start of the Ninth Pass.

_Before_ he’d become Masterharper.

_Before_ the Weyrs came forward.

Before AIVAS was rediscovered at Landing.

_Is there a giant storm happening above Fort Hold now?_ he asked AIVAS.

They focused sensors on the distant dot of Pern, magnified it.

And there was a storm, barely visible as the Northern Continent slowly, distantly whirled into view.

His stomach felt sick.

_How did we go_ between _whens through a wormhole?_ Robinton asked.

_I’m not entirely certain. Although, an opening, closing, and reopening of a wormhole would have left the traces that initially led me to keep an eye open for wormhole formation in our time. It’s possible this entire wormhole route is still developing as of this when, gearing up to fully open in our when, and it’s still unstable._

_Would this…wormhole gestation… have caused great storms on Pern?_

_Possibly._

To the people around them, Robinton said cheerfully, “We’re here, in the Rukbat system. Home sweet home! I’ve set a route directly to Pern.”

“Will we be receiving a shuttle with your passengers?” Captain Thorne asked.

“Possibly for some of them, certainly not for all. Let me get in contact with my people, and we can finalize the arrangements.” Robinton flashed a jubilant smile he didn’t feel at the herm, then unhooked himself from the pilot’s chair, and took himself and the adaptor back to his quarters.

AIVAS stayed put, using the androgynoid chassis to process data.

#

Over the next few hours, Robinton put on what he felt was one of the greatest performances of his life.

It wasn’t that he was _lying_ to the Dendarii, precisely. Only that he didn’t want to alarm them unduly, especially if this could be undone. If simply _thinking_ of a when from times past had somehow ferried their ship through a wormhole into the wrong when, well, didn’t that have similarities to how dragons went to and fro? And _that_ would mean it wasn’t just to, it _was_ fro at well. So it was quite possibly they weren’t _truly_ stuck here in the past.

_It very much suggests a_ between _drive is possible_ , AIVAS said. _Proves it, even. This accident is possibly the best thing that could have happened to us from that perspective_.

_But can I just think of the correct when, and fix my mistake by going back through again? Will the wormhole even reopen in this when in an acceptable timeframe?_

Pacing around, he reviewed his memories of that last jump and noted that he hadn’t visualized his coordinates correctly _at all,_ lingering nostalgically in the past and all.

And that was on him. That was on him, arrogantly discarding the wisdom of the Weyrs (what little he’d picked up via osmosis over his lifetime.)

(But he hadn’t realized he’d _needed_ to adhere to their standards!)

_I need to examine the data,_ AIVAS said patiently.

Of course. And _his_ duty was not to panic _them_ —or himself—unduly.

Really, if worst came to worst, they’d have to leave the ship here, and get dragonriders to ferry the Dendarii forward to the correct _when_. Although Admiral Naismith might consider that an outright theft of his ship.

(Robinton doubted they could get enough riders to transport the ship itself forward as they had the antimatter engines to the Red Star. For one, they didn’t have spacesuits in this when. Although if they got future-riders to come back for it, maybe that wouldn’t be a problem…)

But—come to think of it, nobody had ever mentioned spotting an Ariel orbiting Pern. Not even Master Wansor.

_If the Ariel has been in our system all this time, you hid it somewhere my sensors on the Yokohama can’t find._

_Is that hard to do?_ Robinton asked hopefully.

_No_.

Ah. Well.

Robinton paced in his quarters, considering who he could talk to on Pern down there, and which of those people he could ask for aid. In this _when_ , going _between_ times was not known. Or, at least, not _publically_ known.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t contact _someone_. F’lon seemed a good bet. F’lar and F’nor both had vouched they’d gotten their staunch belief in thread from their sire, and if it turned out that Robinton had had a secret meeting with F’lon in this when, that easily could have been why F’lon had schooled his sons so.

He snorted to himself. He’d _expected_ to have to beg favors from Benden riders…just not _this_ Benden rider!

But that was the backup plan, of course. Truly, he wanted to get the entire ship out of this _when_ as well. Rescuing _only_ the people was a last resort.

AIVAS said, _When we get to the Yokohama, I can use its computers to supplement my processing power. That will help me considerably._

Robinton let out a long sigh, and sat down on his bed, still thinking furiously.

#

A few hours later, Captain Thorne offered their coms courteously so he could send a message to a Pernese comconsole—the Ariel’s communication officer was available to point the communications equipment in the right direction.

“I appreciate the offer, but Zair’s already been there and back,” Robinton lied. “I would not send correspondence like this through a com when a firelizard is available. It would _insult_ my countrymen. We prefer a personal touch.” He smiled brightly.

“Right.”

“If you notice another firelizard flying about—a gold, or another bronze that isn’t Zair, it’s probably my reply. I’d appreciate if it someone told me they’d spotted it, Captain. Firelizards sometimes go sightseeing when you least expect it, much to the aggravation of those waiting for their letters.”

“Of course, Diplomat.”

AIVAS did not have any firm answers for Robinton as the hours passed. Solving the question of unexpected time-travel through wormholes was not simple, even with data available for analysis. But they decided once they got to the Yokohama, Robinton could take the as-of-this-when-unnamed Mastersinger Merelan down to the surface.

When they were close to the Yokohama, Robinton sat in the pilot’s seat again. AIVAS used the short-range communications to signal the Yokohama to wake up, just enough to open the bay containing the (eventual) Mastersinger Merelan. The bay had once housed all the other shuttles the colonists had brought with them, and the Ariel was, surprisingly, able to dock, although it dwarfed the other ship.

Robinton then smiled winsomely, and begged Captain Thorne for the indulgence of a borrowed spacesuit.

The Captain was surprisingly amiable, and motioned at Robinton to follow it through the ship, speaking on its com as it did so, asking for a spacesuit that’d fit someone over two meters in height.

Amongst the Dendarii crew, Robinton was not unusually tall, and one was brought quickly.

But then Captain Thorne said, “You can borrow this—on one condition, Diplomat.”

Robinton raised an eyebrow, and waited.

“That I come with you.”

Choosing his words carefully, Robinton said, “Does Admiral Naismith want his representative presented to the Conclave? If that is the case, which planet would the Dendarii represent to my government? Escobar? Jackson’s Whole? Barrayar? Or are you simply looking for a larger, long-term contract from Pern?”

“Admiral Naismith—and more importantly right now, _I_ —would like to know why our ship’s galactic time is no longer correct. Half our logs began timestamping every entry several _decades_ into the past. And according to our sensors, it is not a software bug.”

Robinton didn’t let the curse words in his head show in his face or bearing.

_Ah, the joys of lazy programmers,_ AIVAS said. _I’m sure their test suites didn’t appropriately account for time travel, as they felt it was all right to assume that the last calculated galactic time, taken from star positions, is_ always _correct and to update clocks automatically. The Dendarii technicians are going to have fun auditing their files later._

Robinton pursed his lips, then said, not wanting to prematurely alienate a Captain he might have to work with later if they needed to abandon the Ariel in this _when_ later on, “I can take you, but _only_ you, and only if you do not carry energy weapons. Not even a stunner. Edged weapons—can you wield a sword, Captain?—can be brought.”

The herm thought about this. Then the spacesuit was handed over to Robinton, signaling a deal, and AIVAS went back to Robinton’s quarters to get something that would fit the Captain.

#

In the end, it was a combination of AIVAS’ clothing and Robinton’s that got Captain Thorne appropriately attired under its own spacesuit. A ceremonial sword was also added to its kit; Robinton wondered how skilled the herm was with it, and hoped it would remain ceremonial.

Then the three of them—or four, if you counted Zair—exited the Ariel, floated across the bay, and boarded the yet-unnamed Mastersinger Merelan.

Feeling a sense of déjà vu—although _was_ it that, if the memories you recalled were from the future?—Robinton cycled them through the airlock, then floated past empty quarters and up the ladder. The ship looked strange, unlived in and empty, but Robinton shoved aside the sense of foreboding that brought, and floated into the cockpit. Captain Thorne trailed behind, and AIVAS brought up the rear.

When the ship’s engines had warmed, and he wasn’t risking frostbite, he got out of the Dendarii spacesuit and stowed it in an empty seat under its straps. Captain Thorne copied him. AIVAS, who hadn’t put a suit on to begin with, strapped his chassis into one of the seats, while Robinton took the center one.

As the chair adjusted to his height, and molded to his neck, Robinton tried to think of sites near Benden Weyr where he could land a ship unnoticed.

_There will be noise,_ AIVAS warned. _It may be best to come through the atmosphere over the ocean at night, then glide over sparsely-populated areas using minimal power, to avoid notice._

Yes, and he’d have to send Zair to Simanith and hope the bronze _would_ listen to a firelizard’s natterings, and accept coordinates _between_.

Or he could walk or hire a runner to take him into the Weyr if he landed somewhere on the eastern coast. He might very well be mistaken for his sire though, and also, in this era, Benden Weyr was quite insular and it was suspicious for people to walk the long mountain road. Usually you came in with a dragonrider, or not at all.

“Can you ride, Captain Thorne?” Robinton asked.

“Horses?”

Robinton nodded.

“No.”

Perhaps it would be better to try summoning the rider to him with Zair, then.

What site would be suitable for a ship, _and_ also be plausible that his younger-self would know? Sending Zair to Simanith would be pushing it. Asking Simanith to take F’lon to a place Robinton was unlikely to be, pushing it further still.

_Fort Weyr is empty,_ AIVAS reminded him.

Yes, that was true, and remote enough that he might be able to slip in under the cover of night without making a huge fuss or starting a new legend.

And also, he _wondered_ —if time-travel did not leave loose ends, if things _had to be done_ because they’d _already happened_ , why, exactly, had he daydreamed about the Harper Hall?

Was there _something_ in the Records that his hindbrain remembered, but his conscious brain did not? Was he supposed to talk to Master Gennell, which perhaps set in motion important events that he hadn’t realized were connected to himself when he was younger?

Or was it truly simple chance, a mistake?

AIVAS offered no insight.

“We’ll put down in Fort Weyr,” Robinton said. “Then visit Fort Hold. Unless—AIVAS, is there anything you need from Landing?”

“Not in its current state,” AIVAS replied. Its current state being buried under dirt and jungle.

Very well. To Thorne he warned, “This ship doesn’t have general-use anti-gravity; we’ll feel some acceleration, despite the dampers.”

A nod.

Activating his connection with the ship, Robinton “kicked” the docking clamps off, and glided them through the open bay doors, feeling déjà vu the entire way.

#

Under the cover of night, they broke through the atmosphere over the Western Ocean, where the crashing of the waves and their distance from shore hid the unusual sounds they made.

Robinton had not done an atmospheric entry before, although his initial training simulations had covered it, and the reflexes to deal with it came. Not expertly, but good enough.

It was, in many ways, more intimidating than wormhole transit, and as their ship was blown and buffeted by erratic gusts, his respect for the flying abilities of dragons increased. Unlike him, they didn’t have sophisticated machines to bolster fragile flesh.

Fort Weyr in this era was shockingly overgrown and desolate in the lights of the ship as they landed in the Weyrbowl, a stark contrast to his homesick nostalgia from before. He’d become used to it bustling with dragons, riders, and _life_ , and it was disconcerting to see something he’d found thrilling and spooky as a boy, and then bustling and lived-in after the Pass had started, with new eyes.

No wonder the Oldtimers had become irate. Had anyone come to _help_ them restore their homes? Or had they, from their perspective, been yanked into the future by Lessa, and then abandoned to take care of themselves, fix all of the decay themselves, when they were unused to the ferocious independence Benden Weyr had practiced? He honestly couldn’t recall. He’d sent Harpers to bring them up to speed history-wise, but had not tracked what the other Craftmasters had done.

Perhaps the Oldtimers had suffered from culture shock, too.

A group of feral herdbeasts startled as they landed in the bowl, bellowing and running away from the large flying contraption, just as in ages past (and in ages-future) they stampeded away from dragons.

“I wonder what stories they’d tell each other about us if they could talk,” Robinton mused.

“What?”

A rueful smile crossed his face. “Oh, just thinking out loud that those poor beasts have never seen anything like this ship before. Perhaps to them, we are an odd-looking dragon. This is a Weyr, after all.”

The Betan studied the screens. “Are these ruins?”

Affecting a casual air, as he prepared to tell the herm something significant, Robinton said, “Yes and no. They are ruins in this _when_ , in this era. But in a few decades, Fort Weyr will be bustling with activity.”

With an odd, unsettled yet intent look on its face, Thorne said, “Are you claiming, then, we’ve traveled through time?”

It was probably time for a few Teaching Ballads, wasn’t it? Robinton shut down the ship, and detached his implant from the chair, stretching his arms towards the ceiling. “Ah, I probably should have brought my gitar.” He settled into the seat in a more casual position, one knee canted, and folded his hands over his belly. “Moreta was a great lady indeed. But _not_ the Culture Hero most revered in the Ninth Pass. _That_ is reserved for the lovely Lady Lessa, rider of the queen dragon Ramoth—who, coincidentally, is also the largest dragon ever hatched on Pern. Lady Lessa—“

“Diplomat, if you are honestly claiming we have _traveled through time_ into the past, I am interested in _information_ , not songs.”

Robinton regarded the Betan, wondering if it would be feeling culture shock soon, too. “You _should_ be,” Robinton admonished them gently. “Interested in our songs, that is. We teach our little ones to read and write, of course, but most of our history comes from an oral tradition. Which, if you bear patiently with me, includes the answers that you seek.”

The herm sighed.

Taking that as assent, Robinton said, “Now, Lady Lessa’s story begins most tragically. The youngest daughter of the Blood of Ruatha Hold, she was the only survivor of a massacre that took away both of her parents, and her brothers and all her siblings, when the tyrant Fax carved his bloody way across the continent—“

Strumming an imaginary gitar—and then laughing when AIVAS piped music through the speakers that matched his movements, including a fumble—Robinton launched into Lessa’s Ballad, and sung it with gusto—accompanied by the virtual gitar—pausing only to point out finer bits of Pernese history that the littlest child would know, but a foreign Betan would not.

He detailed how the riders of Benden Weyr came to Ruatha Hold on Search—

“Search,” Robinton interrupted himself, “Is when the dragonmen come to Holds and Halls to select candidates to stand on the Impression sands. The boys and young women chosen leave their homes and families behind and go to the Weyr, and if they’re lucky, become dragonriders.”

“People are kidnapped from their homes?”

“Oh no, they can refuse if they want. But who would? To be a dragonrider is to find your soulmate, your best friend forever. Dragonriders are heroes—they live in a private weyr, no need to share a bed or sleep in a dorm with apprentices. They are tithed fine food, clothing, baubles for their homes. They attract the best women, if that is their thing—or a decent selection of men, if it’s not, and blast what the rest of the world thinks of their preferences. In return, during a Pass, they _do_ have to fight thread. A hard job indeed. But there are many benefits given in exchange for it. The average man or woman who lives in a small Hold and isn’t able to be accepted into a Craft would never be able to live the life a dragonrider lives. 

“No, Captain Thorne, by and large, they go willingly to the Weyr when Searched, even if angry relatives accuse the dragonriders of brainwashing their children and stealing them away.”

Despite themselves, the Betan listened, fascinated.

Singing on, Robinton detailed how F’lar and Mnementh came to Ruatha Hold to Search, and Fax allowed them their ancient rights, although ungraciously. But Fax was a proud man, and when the meal they were served was poorly cooked and inedible, in a rage he promised to renounce Ruatha Hold in favor of his unborn child, if the child survived and was male, since Ruatha clearly was incapable of supporting itself or its “rightful overlord”. This statement was heard and witnessed by the dragonmen.

But when his Ruathan bride abruptly went into labor, and delivered a living male heir, Fax reneged on his promise, and insulted the dragonriders, which resulted in a knife-fight with F’lar. Fax was known to be a keen swordsman, leaving many foes dead in his wake. But much to the surprise and joy of everyone, F’lar was even better, and slew Fax.

“Now,” Robinton said, raising a finger. “Lady Lessa had been hiding as a drudge, as a servant, all these years in the Hold that was her family’s by Blood-right. If she had pressed, perhaps she would have been instated as Lady Holder over the infant. It would have been unusual, but not impossible. Very few people wanted any spawn of Fax to inherit a Hold, innocent infant though Jaxom was. But there was only one golden queen left at Benden Weyr, and only one golden egg to replace it and ensure the survival of dragons as a species, and when F’lar Searched Lessa for the Weyr, Lessa renounced her claim to the Hold and went with him. There, in the Weyr, she Impressed the queen dragon Ramoth, and became the Weyrwoman of Benden Weyr.”

Robinton continued with the ballad, singing about how the Red Star approached, and was bracketed in the Eye Rock, heralding the return of the Red Star—a planet, not a star, he confided to the Betan as he oriented the ship’s cameras and pointed it out in the sky—and then, despite the denial of many that thread would ever return despite the Red Star being bracketed in the stone their Ancestors left for them, and balancing on Finger Rock, the Ninth Pass began.

With only a single Weyr to defend _all_ of Pern.

At first, when thread fell infrequently, Benden Weyr could keep up with the onslaught. But as they progressed further into the Ninth Pass, thread fell more and more frequently, and injured dragons and riders were not healed before it was time to fight another fall. The previous queen, Jora, had not been producing enough eggs in the turns before the Ninth Pass began, so even if there’d been more than one Weyr at the time, Benden still would have been considered under-strength, and while Ramoth was laying generous clutches, those clutches (and their young riders) still needed time to grow. It was unsustainable, and seemed likely Benden would fail and humankind on Pern would go extinct.

Then Lessa discovered the trick of going _between_ times, and learned that the _reason_ she had survived Fax’s slaughter is because she and Ramoth had accidentally warned her younger self, causing her to take shelter.

Benden Weyr explored this sudden discovery, and found that any dragon could go _between_ whens. So they sent their younger riders, the ones too young to fight thread, back in time on the Southern continent, in the hopes that they would mature into a fighting force. But existing twice in one when is physically unpleasant, even when separated by continents, so they were forced to return to the present, and the frequency of the Falls meant they _still_ did not have enough dragons to protect all of Pern.

Robinton sang about the question song, the question of where, exactly, all the other Weyrs had gone. The Records show they hadn’t dwindled out. They’d literally vanished between one day or the next.

Lessa remembered tapestries from her childhood in Ruatha Hold, and had Lord Warder Lytol—“You remember him, from the meeting,” Robinton remarked. —pull them from storage. Then, using the position of the stars on the tapestry to navigate by, she went back in _time four hundred turns_.

And those Weyrs, tired of living in peace after the excitement of the Eighth Pass, agreed to come forward to help defend Pern during the Ninth Pass of the Red Star. “D’ram,” Robinton added, “Whom you may meet eventually, is from that time. He lives in the 9th Pass now, but was born hundreds of turns ago.”

Strumming merrily at the gitar that did not exist, Robinton finished up the grand tale, and, after a proper triumphant finish, let the song fade into silence.

The herm was silent for a very long while. Then they said, “Why wasn’t I told beforehand? That you were headed back in time?” An odd light came into their eyes. “Or does the Admiral know?”

“Does the Admiral know?” Robinton asked. “Very good question. Tricky question, too, when _between_ whens is concerned. I didn’t tell him about _between_ whens when we negotiated your ship to come out here, because I had no intention to go _between_ whens via a wormhole. In fact, I didn’t realize it was possible. Although at this point it’s not out of the question that, in my personal future, I may inform him of this in the past. So it is possible that he _did_ know when giving you any orders _you_ may have. But I cannot confirm it.” Robinton paused, reflected his tone was perhaps too flippant for the gravity of the situation, and he paused his lighthearted deflection and looked the herm deep in the eye. “I _will_ get you, and your men, women, and herms, back into the right _when_ , you have my _personal_ word of honor on that.”

The herm’s eyes were calculating, and for a moment Robinton thought perhaps his bare word was not enough for them, but then they jerked their chin in a nod, clearly intending to hold Robinton to his promise.

Sighing, Robinton said, “The _trickier_ proposition is the Ariel. If AIVAS and I are unable to take her through the wormhole back into the correct _when_ , then by necessity she will have to be parked in space and naturally age from this _when_ to the _when_ we should be in.”

The herm looked strained as they took Robinton’s words in. A ship was no small thing to lose. Who knew what might happen to it during the passing of several decades?

But then something seemed to occur to them, and suddenly the feline-like tension that had accompanied the Captain of the Ariel all the way down from the ship and onto the surface of Pern flowed away, and Thorne looked at peace with themselves.

Merry, even. They gave Robinton a wicked look and said, “Well. I can’t say I haven’t been in worse situations before. What’s your plan? Will anyone be shooting at us?”

“Shooting?” Robinton asked. “Oh, no, no. I doubt we’ll even get a knife thrown at us. No, my purpose in coming here is twofold. First, I want to investigate _why_ my wandering mind brought me _here_ , to this when. Perhaps it’s no more than chance and nostalgia. Or perhaps, like Lessa…perhaps I set something in motion with myself, with my younger self, and I have to complete the loop. I don’t know.

“Second, if AIVAS is unable to devise a way for us to get back to the proper when using the wormhole, I need to selectively tell a certain dragonrider about the ability to go _between_ whens, so that a messenger to the correct time can be sent, and dragonriders from the correct time can come here to take your people forward.” Robinton rubbed his face, and noticed that the moons were full, and riding high, and the storm that had covered this area when they’d exited the wormhole hours before was very much gone. “Let’s go for a walk. We should end up at Fort Hold a little after noon.”

#

The Betan, Robinton discovered, was somewhat unused to open skies, and even less used to traveling down mountains, and the walk down the overgrown road from Fort Weyr to Fort Hold was slower than Robinton had anticipated. Of course, he didn’t let the herm know it; seeing suppressed signs of pain and fatigue was enough to make Robinton slow the pace, pleading his own age, and the not-so-distant effects of a long illness from earlier this turn.

It wasn’t much of a lie, however. His own stamina _wasn’t_ what it used to be, and he was too used to traveling a-dragonback.

To fill the time, Robinton took to AIVAS’ terrestrial education, wandering here and there off the road to pluck a leaf or point out some other Pernese feature that AIVAS knew by reputation, but had never actually seen with his own eyes, or touched with his own hands.

The hint of that alien emotion, that _AI_ emotion of building-self-via-tasks joy, made Robinton smile. It seemed his acts of bringing discoveries to AIVAS to examine queued small priorities to physically handle and examine them in the AI, and fed its pursuit of knowledge and self.

Of course, AIVAS learned other things too, simply from striding over the surface of the planet in his own body. Like the stickiness of mud and loam against his toes.

Cradling a trundlebug in his hands, careful not to alarm it or squish it enough to let off its overwhelming smell, AIVAS balanced on one foot, regarded the _magnificently_ dirty sole of the other, and said, “Could we, perhaps, get me soft leather shoes, moccasins, while we’re here? I will miss feeling the ground, but I also don’t want to have to do excessive maintenance on my feet. A chassis like this one is hard to come by here. I must keep it in working order.”

Robinton chuckled. “Yes, we can get you some shoes. Ah, ‘ware, Captain Thorne! There’s a tunnelsnake over there. Its bite won’t kill you—well, it won’t kill a Pernese, I don’t know about a Betan—but it hurts terribly, and we don’t have any numbweed or fellis on us.”

Thorne, wiping sweat from its brow, spotted the creature sunning itself in the early-morning light, and avoided it.

The road became much better tended when they reached a lower elevation and it merged into a main throughway to Fort Hold, and they made better speed. It was also very traveled, with recent, fresh tracks despite last night’s storm, and Robinton realized that it must be a Gather day.

His suspicion was soon rewarded when the sound of draybeasts pulling a wagon came from behind. Robinton raised an arm in greeting, and hailed the driver, who seemed to be a young man bringing his sisters and friends to the Gather. “Hello, hello! Is it Gather day already?”

“Yes, and luckily the storm passed through overnight, Master…er…”

Robinton realized that while his rank knot was that of a Master, the colors didn’t fit any Craft. Disdainfully flicking the knot, Robinton said, “Can you _believe_ this dye job? I’m a Harper, lad. Master—“ and Robinton realized he needed a new name. Word would get around fast if an old man calling himself _Master Robinton_ was about.

Grasping for a name, he said, “Sebell. I washed this _once_ and the colors bled every which way. I’m not even sure how you get pink from blue. Must be some new dying technique. Believe you me, I’ll making a complaint to Master Gennell! Masterharper will get it sorted out if anyone can.”

“Oh, I think it’s pretty, sir,” one of the young women said, leaning over the cart to smile at him.

“It’s very pretty,” Robinton agreed, smiling back in his most fatherly way. “But you can’t tell I’m a Harper, which makes wearing it moot!”

“Where’s your instrument?” a more skeptical young woman asked.

Robinton gestured towards AIVAS’s feet. “With my son’s boots. Down the river. He got stuck, I went to get him out, next thing we know the water’s rising. Lost my instrument, lost his boots, but kept my son, which I think in the bigger scheme of things is a fair trade.” Kissing the side of AIVAS’s head, Robinton said, _Pretend to be embarrassed._

AIVAS promptly shrugged away from Robinton’s display of affection like he wished the mud would swallow the rest of him whole.

The wagon-riders made sounds of dismay over the state of AIVAS’ feet, and agreement with Robinton’s conclusion about what was worth more, then the driver said, “You’re headed to the Gather?”

“To the Harper Hall,” Robinton agreed. “Then the Gather.”

“Get in.”

And so a perfectly ordinary wagon of young Gather-goers added a future/former Masterharper, a Betan hermaphrodite, and an Ancient AI controlling the chassis of an androgynoid to their number.

#

It wasn’t difficult to acquire a soft pair of boots for AIVAS once they found a fountain to wash his feet off at, particularly since a mark stretched further in the past than in the present.

During the process of fitting-and-stitching, Robinton and Thorne both crowd-watched, but for different reasons.

Captain Thorne, it seemed, had decided to play the part of bodyguard, and its eyes wandered the Gather. Which was wiser than Robinton let on, this being the era that Fax rose to power in.

Robinton scanned the crowd for dragonriders, and memories. And dragonriders that were memories. And people who might mistake _him_ for a memory. He didn’t expect that anyone would take him for his younger self, but it was possible he might be mistaken for Petiron or some cousin.

The only dragonriders he spotted at this Gather were a pair of brownriders and a bluerider, all of whom he vaguely recognized, none of which he could name. Perhaps they had died before the Ninth Pass had begun.

That thought made an uneasy shiver go down his spine. How many of the people around him, walking, chatting, bartering for goods…were dead and gone now? Surely everyone who looked as old as he did. And some of the younger folk as well. All dead, all gone.

He was walking amongst ghosts of the past, and it wasn’t nostalgic at all.

Still, he tried to keep his mind on his first objective—to discover if there was a _reason_ he’d brought himself here. And AIVAS, for all that he was interacting with the world around them, chipped away at the wormhole-whens problem. He did not seem to think getting back via the wormhole was impossible, and Robinton could _feel_ the weight of AIVAS processing, so Robinton held onto hope.

After AIVAS’s boots were fitted, Robinton bought them klah and meatrolls, and took them over to an open table—open because it was close to the completely empty Gather stage, and far away from everything else of interest. A place where he and Captain Thorne could talk, without Thorne’s accent being too conspicuous.

Thorne took the mug of klah Robinton poured from the cheap clay pot, sniffed it, and took a cautious sip. Then it took another, a look of pleasant surprise on its face. “What’s this?”

“Klah,” Robinton said. “The same stuff we introduced to Admiral Naismith at the meeting. I’m told it tastes like ‘coffee’, ‘chocolate’, and ‘cinnamon’, although we have none of those things on Pern so I couldn’t say.”

Taking another sip, Thorne agreed, “A little bit, but not really. It’s its own thing. You could sell this!”

“Mm,” Robinton said, still unwilling to entertain thoughts of trading thread-free galactics a foodstuff dragonriders had literally died protecting.

Thorne broke open a meat roll next, then hesitated. “Is it supposed to be like this?”

Robinton saw nothing wrong with the color. “What do you mean?”

“Green.”

AIVAS spoke. “Pernese fauna has copper-based blood. It’s a greenish color. That meatroll is probably wherry, if I’m not mistaken?”

Taking a generous bite of his own meatroll, Robinton nodded. “Would you prefer something else? I suppose caprine, ovine, or bovine meat would be—“ Then he realized. “None of it is vat-grown, I’m afraid, no matter if it’s red-blooded or green. Would you prefer something vegetarian? The bubbly pies are good, and contain no meat.”

“Lard,” AIVAS said.

“…that’s not meat?” Robinton said in confusion.

“But it’s processed from living animals,” AIVAS said. “From a Betan point-of-view, that may not be considered ‘kosher’, so to speak.”

Captain Thorne, proving their fears unfounded because it had no qualms eating natural meat, or had enough diplomacy or military pragmatism to _pretend_ it had no qualms, dug into its meal with no evidence of disgust aside from the initial pause over how green it was, and the topic was dropped.

AIVAS did not eat as they did, but he did nurse a cup of klah, and tried very small portions of food which he put on his tongue to taste, before depositing them back on his plate.

As they ate, Robinton could hear the faint sounds of a runner race wrapping up in the distance, and he thought about riders cheating at Bitran games.

If he simply took (or rather, argued convincingly with the Betan to allow) the Ariel back through the wormhole, to the Nexus in _this_ when, might he find scores of his own people on the other side? Already transported back _whens_ and secretly working on projects?

Although he’d only been thinking of giving his future Craftmates a head-start of five, ten turns at most. Not this many.

_Keep in mind,_ AIVAS said. _This wormhole we exited through was not open when you discovered me at Landing. In fact, we don’t know whether it will reopen again before our time. Bringing new-made Diplomats to this when, and sending them through a wormhole to get a head-start in the Nexus might not be feasible. Even if this wormhole reopens, we have no guarantee the rest of the chain will be passable. Signs indicated those were newly-formed, too. I think the previous plan of sending your people back five or ten turns by utilizing dragons brought to Beta Colony on the Ariel in our correct when is a better plan._

A couple of young Harpers began to set up on the stage, talented Apprentices and Journeymen to lure people done with the early-afternoon races towards the food. The Harpers playing would gradually get more and more senior as Gather stalls sold out of goods, and people shifted from a buying mood to a partying mood. Cook-tents were already being prepped, with chefs and kitchen workers from Fort Hold chopping ingredients and setting children and canines to rotating spits. By the time the sun set, the Harpers would be playing in full force, the air would be thick with food, and the grounds full of dancers.

“Do you dance, Captain Thorne?” Robinton asked.

“Absolutely! Whenever I can.” The Betan glanced around, looking for the party, then asked, “Are you offering?”

Robinton smiled and said, “Later this evening, this area will be filled with food and dancers. I thought I might teach you and AIVAS a few dances before then, so you two don’t get lost in the shuffle or sidelined.”

“I look forward to it, Diplomat.”

#

AIVAS came up with an idea that might “salt” the forming wormhole in such a way that it might open for them one more time so they could pass through, but it would require more than just software changes to work. Realignments of a ship’s necklin rods were not to be taken lightly; if it went wrong, the ship would be permanently crippled in its ability to transit wormholes. Not a dire problem if you were stranded in the middle of a popular transit hub, but Pern was the furthest thing possible from that.

Thus, Robinton, AIVAS, and Captain Thorne talked about the possibilities in detail and at length in hushed tones as more and more people seated themselves with friends and food to talk and listen to the music playing. Robinton ate entirely too much (he wondered if AIVAS was somehow tweaking his appetite), AIVAS ate too little, and when people started appearing with wineglasses and mugs of beer, Captain Thorne reminded Robinton of his promise to introduce him to Benden Wine. (Apparently Admiral Naismith had hogged the skin they’d given him and hadn’t broken it out for Thorne before they’d gone on their separate missions.)

Smacking his head dramatically with his palm, Robinton exclaimed, “Benden wine! How could I have _possibly_ forgotten? That’s not like me at all. Oh, I hope they have it here—and that they’ll let me get my hands on it if they do.” Robinton suspected, without rank giving him little privileges, he might have to part from a good mark or three for a wineskin appropriate to introduce a galactic mercenary Captain to. Wagging a finger at Thorne and AIVAS, Robinton said, “Wait right here! Don’t move an inch. We’ll see what sort of wine we have to work with today…”

It took Robinton a little bit more haggling than he was used to, and some demonstrations of his ability to guess the turn a particular vintage was made to impress the vintners, but he got his hands on a wineskin that was young in this era, but well-regarded in the modern one, and several glasses—his already filled with a different vintage—to go.

Wending his way back through the festive crowd, Robinton sipped at his glass and wondered if now was a good time to pause their discussion about the necklin rods, and practice dancing. The current set of Harpers weren’t doing dance tunes yet, only a familiar, lovely song he vaguely remembered (had that one really fallen out of style?), but if they moved off to the side away from the press—

—a familiar, haunting soprano easily cut through the crowd, and Robinton stopped, dead in his tracks, and stared up at the Gather stage.

It was his mother.

She was still _alive_ , in this when.

The crowd fell almost as silent as he, equally spellbound, and only Robinton’s fear that if he simply stood there, tall and gangly and _himself_ he might somehow startle her into _noticing_ him (which would accidentally create a very large problem for them) helped him get moving again, slightly hunched over as he moved to their table (which had been a poor location earlier when the races were on, but a top-tier one now). He sat down, across from AIVAS and Thorne, set the wineskin on the table with the empty glasses, hid the lower half of his face with his trembling hand, and _stared_.

He stared, and stared, and _stared_ as a ghost-woman long dead in his time performed and enchanted an audience.

How _foolish_ he’d been, to think there was no nostalgia in the past when the fuzziness of memory conspired to hide flaws. There was nostalgia enough to break a man’s _soul._

Thorne was observant enough not to try to talk to Robinton throughout the song, or even take the wineskin, and soon they were also drawn in by the Master Singer Merelan’s beauty and skill too. And the three of them sat, as enchanted as the rest of the crowd, while she sang one song, then another, and then a third song, and gracefully retired for the evening. Three songs, for a crowd that would have listened to her sing _thirty_. And he could see, from here, how pale the effort had made her.

This was the turn she’d died, wasn’t it?

“Who was she?” a voice prompted him.

Robinton twitched, still lost in his private grief, given new tinder. “Who?” he managed, the thinnest veneer of civility across a torrent that tried to break.

“The woman, with the voice.”

Robinton blinked a few times, as if that might make the sting go away, and as he saw a small bronze form try to wing in he sent a firm command to _go! Don’t let them see you!_

Zair fretted in his mind about his pain, but went, if only because obeying lessened Robinton’s emotional burden.

Wetting his lips with first his tongue, and then with a good gulp of wine, Robinton leaned towards Captain Thorne and said under the general sound of the crowd, “That was my mother. Master Singer Merelan.”

“Your ship.”

Robinton nodded once, curtly, and pulled away. “I named it after her. Because nobody remembers her face or her voice, but at least I can make sure they remember her name.”

AIVAS said, “I recorded that performance. When we return, they’ll remember her face _and_ her voice, too.”

The androgynoid’s confession was so unexpected, and so compassionate, that Robinton stared for an astonished second, and then buried his face in his hands, unable to control his expression, nor tears. And AIVAS rose, rounded the table, and sat next to him, a hand on his shoulder.

If others in the Gather crowd noticed his display of sorrow, they ignored him out of embarrassment or respect for whatever emotions had moved him so deeply. And eventually Robinton pulled himself together, wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, and gave the Betan herm a watery smile across the table. “I was not—“ His voice hitched. He cleared his throat, tried again. “When I went out in my ship amongst the stars, I was _not_ expecting many things, but I especially was _not_ expecting to be _here_ , on this day, seeing her sing again. I was very much _not_ —I was _not_ expecting it.” Reaching for the wineskin, and expertly cracking the seal, he confided to the Captain in a very low voice, “She…passes. This turn. Perhaps that’s the last Gather she sings before she’s gone, I don’t know.”

The herm reached across the table to put a hand on his forearm, which he allowed for a moment before shaking it off.

Exerting discipline over his wayward emotions by sheer brunt of will, Robinton sniffed again, and filled three wine glasses. “This is a Benden wine of particularly fine vintage.” He set one in front of AIVAS, and one in front of Thorne. Then he resealed the skin, and held up his own glass. “Let us toast, to the greatest Singer that Pern has ever known!”


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

“Tuck,” Menolly said the next morning when he visited her quarters to check in for the day. “Sit down, close the door.”

He cocked his head, but slipped into the room, closed the door, and leaned against the wall, which was a decent compromise when the only chair in the room had Menolly in it.

She looked at him for a long moment, saying nothing. Her quick, bright anger from the previous night had burned itself out, thankfully. And the anxiety at having to have this discussion had been set aside in a box she’d examine later. The performance was what was important, and while she usually used this skillset for the stage, it was useful here too.

“Suddenly I feel like an Apprentice all over again,” Tuck said.

“That’s perceptive,” Menolly agreed.

He glanced at her, as if he’d never seen this facet of her before. Which he hadn’t. At the Harper Hall, they worked in entirely different circles—their only connection being Robinton and Sebell, really.

Picking through her words, editing them both for the ears in the wall and Tuck, she said, “Blood-feuds cannot be a thing while we’re so far from home. Crying insult and drawing knives _can’t_ be a thing while we’re so far from home.”

They regarded each other quietly.

Eventually Tuck said, “Can I explain?”

“Carefully,” she warned.

To his credit, his impulsive nature was held at bay and she could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. “The way I see it, we’re on a ship of Crafters.” He nodded to himself. “You, by Craft, are a Diplomat, and a Harper. I’m a Harper. _Their_ Craft is war.”

True. She nodded slightly and waited for him to continue.

“The Admiral has been charitable enough to allow us to use the facilities, like the gym, the shooting ranges. And I’m as bloody-bad as a bolluckless bovine at stunners, much less nerve disruptors or the rest of it. That’s been on display ever since we got here—and will continue to be seen, as I keep learning and practicing. I won’t be less terrible at it unless I practice. But if something goes wrong, and suddenly it’s all a tangle of thread, it’s my responsibility to protect us. Sometimes it’s better to avoid a fight altogether. Avoid a _real_ fight. _They_ know now that if we’re on some planet or station where stunners aren’t allowed, I’m no pushover, and if I have a blade on me, most of them won’t win. And that if something comes after all of us together, I’m not bad to have at someone’s side. I can wrestle, too. Maybe win people a few bets at some Gather here or there.”

All of that was fairly logical, she had to admit. But. It _didn’t_ address the part that _really_ made her mad.

Menolly said, “I see your points. However, grudge-carrying is not acceptable. And you’ve said yourself you don’t like to be kept in the dark, even if it’s for your own protection, or ours. I’d rather not have to do that.”

A blink as he suddenly made the connection, that her brief comment about Peter Bok, who had been in the group with Quinn that had jumped them on Beta, could have pointed him the man’s way. “No grudge, Menolly. I asked who was best at blades, and that’s who they pointed me to. The coincidence was coincidence.”

_The coincidence was coincidence._ And Tuck’s expression was completely open.

Which said absolutely _nothing_ , given Tuck was as good (or better) than Sebell at completely adopting a persona. She _hated_ situations like this, where he might be completely telling the truth, or might be using the strong possibility of a true coincidence to hide a lie.

Menolly thought about what she would do in this situation, and what Sebell would, or Robinton. Because she was bloody certain trying to _strangle_ him wouldn’t work.

Peter Bok, at the moment, was an adversary. He, and Quinn, and the others that had taken part in an attempted kidnapping were adversaries. _But_ they hadn’t done it because of anger, or a political agenda against Robinton or AIVAS, which in its own odd way was a relief. Nor did their Admiral seem to be much interested in anything other than information (and firelizards).

Perhaps “adversary” didn’t have to mean enemy. And it wasn’t always that hard to turn a not-enemy into a friend. Especially if the individual in question likely wanted to get close to _them_ to learn more. “Befriend him,” Menolly suggested.

“…yeah?”

“Yeah. Lord Lytol is very interested in Barrayar and Barrayarans. He thinks we’ll be able to better navigate our situation if we learn from their history, as their Time of Isolation caused a failure of technology for them, too, and a fallback on older methods and ways. Maybe the man you fought might have some old family anecdotes about how implementing…oh, a power grid, or mark exchanges, or _something_ did _something_ we wouldn’t even _think_ to think of.”

“The ship’s library is open to us.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You say that like you don’t know what the difference between listening to a ballad and listening to a _person_ is.”

“Huh. Suppose you’re right. Completely different circles of information.” Tuck chuckled. “I can’t guarantee he wants anything from me but a few good bouts, but I’ll try.”

“And no more grudges,” she warned. “I will _make_ you befriend each and every person you fight with.”

“Yes, Harpress,” he said ruefully. But there was a certain thoughtfulness in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before.

#

Menolly was in the mess, hand-feeding hungry-but-spoiled firelizards vat-grown meat (because they wouldn’t take it without plenty of cajoling) when a threadfall siren went off.

Adrenaline flooded her system, and she felt a sudden fear, a fear that she’d left a window open, or a door, or there was a plant on some balcony that hadn’t been brought in and it’d fuel a missed mass of writhing threads into something that could penetrate gaps in the mortar of the hold…

Which made no _sense_. The Dendarii had encountered plenty of things she was sure, but never _thread_. How could they possibly—

As Menolly struggled with a sense of misplaced déjà vu that kept her rooted in confusion, people in the mess jumped up, jammed half-eaten food directly into trash-chutes, and ran. Menolly watched them go, still caught up in the sheer _improbability_ of thread here—

A shadow fell on her. “Maneuvers,” the sweet baritone of Sergeant Taura said, and the woman’s large hand grabbed the container of vat-meat away, chucked it down a chute which sealed tight behind it, and set the other hand against Menolly’s shoulder and drove her into a fold-down seat against the wall and strapped her in. One belt up between her legs, another two over her shoulders and clipped into the first. “Stay here. Warn your dragons.”

“They’re not dra—“

But the large woman was gone, and Menolly found herself blinking at the door the mercenary’s large form had vanished through. Then, with nothing else left to look at, she looked at the com-screen taking up one half of the room, which was scrolling commands for this team to go here, that team to go there.

Something in the belly of the ship groaned, and from beneath her feet thrummed some huge machine she couldn’t even imagine the shape of. It coughed, or spat, or did _something_ powerful, and with each cough the lights in the mess dimmed slightly.

Menolly became acutely aware there was nowhere to run on a spaceship. At least on the ocean, on the sea, you could jump overboard. That wasn’t a great chance, but it was better than the vacuum of space.

“Beauty?” she whispered.

But Beauty, like the others, had vanished elsewhere in the ship. She had no idea where, but the siren had triggered their instincts too. She could still _feel_ them (they hadn’t tried to go _between_ to somewhere they’d never reach and perished) but they weren’t here in the mess with her.

They were probably bothering the crew.

Who were trying to fight an enemy that was powerful enough to require the thing making the horrible noise under her feet to defeat it.

_BEAUTY!_ she snapped mentally, ordering, WILLING all her firelizards back to her, immediately, no delay, no disobeying.

A few seconds passed, the eight seconds of _between,_ and then the faire burst into the mess, all chattering at once. But she wouldn’t have that either, and with a finger stabbing at one of the tables and another mental command, the firelizards lined up on the tabletop, clinging to the edge.

_You WILL stay here, until I release you. Remain with me._ _Be quiet._

They obeyed. Mostly. Beauty let out a small reinforcing sound at them to _obey_ , then leapt over to her lap. 

The minutes passed. Firelizard heads turned back and forth, wings rustled, but they were otherwise quiet and still. Menolly tried to decipher something, _anything_ from the words scrolling across the wall-com, but while she could read the letters and words on their own, together they meant little to her. The Dendarii practiced the Craft of War, something she was extremely unlearned in, and the Crafter jargon might as well as been written in another language entirely.

Because she didn’t have anything else to do, and because she felt a different sort of anxiety that she’d never felt before, she began composing a song in her head. She tried to make it light and happy, something to counter the nervous fear, but it kept falling into a minor key, and took on a peculiar beat in time with the weapons thrumming on their deck somewhere beneath her feet, and eventually she let it.

It wasn’t enough to fully distract her, though. What was happening? Was Tuck okay? Jancis?

Closing her eyes, she reached out to Beauty. Did a particular little trick she could sometimes do to see out of Beauty’s dizzying eyes as well as any human could see out of eyes with millions of little focuses and lenses. Then she asked Beauty to go check on her people.

Beauty obeyed. She went _between_ —which Menolly could half-sense as a phantom coldness on her skin, in her nostrils. And Beauty came out near Jancis.

Jancis was much in the same state as Menolly—jammed into a fold-down chair from the wall, strapped in. Unlike Menolly, there was a sea of information around _her_ , as specialists talked into headsets, and Jancis spared a strained smile for Beauty as she appeared and softly chattered with Jancis’ firelizards, before she focused back on whatever she could hear from the ship engineers.

Through Beauty, Menolly tried to listen for a minute more, but mostly got snippets about _idiot-variety pirates_ and _they’re not idiots if they got this close_ and _how the FUCK did they get in range?!_ She’d have to talk to Jancis when she could to get more.

With more of an emotion than a thought, Menolly urged Beauty to Tuck.

Tuck, unfortunately, was much in the same state as Menolly…strapped into a wall-chair, somewhere out of the way in an empty hallway as people who actually had _information_ were elsewhere. He spotted Beauty, leaned forward and whispered, “What’s going on?”

She didn’t know any better than he, and after a few moments in which he divulged nothing interesting to Beauty (although unlike Jancis, he did speak in a low voice, trying to pass on the little he knew to her), she urged Beauty down the halls, to gather what information the little queen could by listening through doorways and going _between_ past barriers. They’d been on the ship long enough for Beauty to have coordinates for everywhere but the most private parts of the ship.

It had been…a while, she realized…since she’d utilized Beauty this way. Robinton had been more prone to utilize Sebell and Piemur for the more clandestine things, although sometimes she’d been on an assignment that had gone bad, and that’s usually when she’d had to use Beauty for spying. And when Sebell had become Masterharper, her own role had shifted to being more a full-time composer, like Domick. Which had resulted in less of even that.

Well. She should have expected this, at some point.

Settling into her uncomfortable chair, and settling into Beauty’s mind as a passenger, she pretended to anyone who might come by—and more importantly, cameras—that she was sleeping, while invisibly directing Beauty from place to place in the ship, gathering information.

#

“Master Menolly,” Commander Quinn said. It sounded like she’d said it several times before.

Menolly opened her eyes, looked up at the woman who bore a few pink scars from firelizard claws on her face. “Oh. I must’ve fallen asleep. Yes?”

“Get out of those straps, come with me. You’re requested to attend an interrogation.” A reluctant pause. “If you so desire, diplomat.”

#

The coughing of some weapon deep beneath her feet had stopped some time ago, and the ship was eerily quiet in the aftermath of the fight as she followed Quinn through the mostly-deserted corridors. Rocky and Diver adorned her shoulders; Beauty had found a hidden spot in a place-she-probably-shouldn’t-be and Menolly didn’t want her to attract attention by moving or going _between_.

As far as she had been able to discern using Beauty’s senses, a band of pirates that probably weren’t pirates had attacked. They had either speed or stealth that suggested a very wealthy backer with access to all the latest toys, and had gotten close enough to the Triumph that the pocket dreadnaught had used some weapons it almost never had to use. The Dendarii had won, but the enemy had never even tried to contact the Dendarii through coms, which put Admiral Naismith into a very black mood.

_Admiral didn’t even get a chance to talk. He hates that_. Neither Beauty nor Menolly had the name for the person who’d commented within Beauty’s hearing…but Menolly vaguely recognized their insignia as being that of a specialist. Maybe a coms specialist?

“We have some people that claim they were not part of the ones who attacked, that they were prisoners from a prior attack,” Quinn said, as they exited a lift onto a deck Menolly had never been on. There were guards physically present, as well as the eyes of cameras in the walls and ceilings, conspicuously so. “One of them claims to be you.”

“Pardon?”

“From your planet.”

“Who?” Everyone who wasn’t with her was with Lord Lytol on Beta, and the Dendarii would recognize Robinton instantly.

“She says her name is Sain.”

Menolly shook her head. “I don’t know anyone named that.”

“Well, maybe you’ll recognize her face.” Pausing at a door, Quinn did something Menolly couldn’t see, and a door opened, and they went inside.

The room they were in was not very big, and very plain. Menolly had never seen a galactic jail, but it seemed evident that this was what it was. On one side of the room was a desk with a plain-faced, pale middle-aged woman behind it, who was typing into a com. On the other side, sitting on a bench, was a young woman with very dark skin, and the silvery circles of a galactic jump pilot etched into her forehead and temples. As Menolly moved forward into the room, the circles shifted back and forth between a pure white-silver, and an iridescent color, as bright as three shining stars against the night sky.

The woman was staring at her hands—unshackled, Menolly noted—when they entered, but looked up. Quinn produced no reaction from her but an expression of continued blank anxiety, but when her eyes landed on Menolly, they went huge, then tears welled up.

“Faranth’s Eggs,” she breathed. “They weren’t lying to me.”

Quinn looked at Menolly questioningly.

The accent was Pernese, there was no doubt about that. (Unless there was? Tuck and Swift and Robinton surely weren’t the only ones to practice mimicking accents…) But Menolly didn’t recognize the woman.

She nearly turned to Quinn to say that, but the thought that if Robinton was able to do what he’d gone back to Pern to do entered her mind. The woman could very well be Pernese. The fact that she was a jump pilot was interesting, and made it even more likely given how badly they needed them.

But how she ended up as some…prisoner of…someone…and then here…Menolly had no idea. It must have been a terribly difficult journey, though.

Menolly said, “I’m sorry. We share an accent, but I don’t recall ever meeting you. Would you mind introducing yourself? I’m Master Menolly, of the Harper and Diplomat Halls.

“I know,” the woman said. With the base of her thumb, she wiped the tears away from her eyes, and said, blinking back further tears, “I’m Sain, of the Diplomat Hall. Previously of the Miner Hall. My rank is Apprentice, but I’ve finished my training to be a jump pilot, and I’m due at Beta Hold to walk the tables. Then I’ll be Journeywoman. I was stationed on Tau Ceti for my education, but reassigned back to Beta Hold after my graduation.” A pause. “If your brother’s around, Master Alemi, he’ll vouch for me. He’s a very nice man. I’ve learned a lot from him.”

All of this was new to Menolly, so she paused a while, thinking. “Is Alemi your Master?” she said after a moment.

“No.”

“Who, then?”

Sain wiped her nose, and said, “I’ve been off-planet for training, so I don’t have a specific Master I’m assigned to. I suppose you or Master Robinton would be the closest, but like I said I was never assigned to either of you directly. If I work up the ladder of rank, I technically report to Weyrdiplomat D’ram first, as a jump pilot. I’m a transport technician, not an actual diplomat-Diplomat, and that’s the domain of the Weyrs. If Weyrdiplomat D’ram isn’t around, I’d be under Master Robinton’s command. And if he’s not available, Lord Lytol.”

In any other circumstance, a woman claiming to report to D’ram-the-Weyrdiplomat before Robinton had even gotten back to Pern to ask D’ram to take on such a position would be unlikely. But given the circumstances, it was plausible. And Menolly had a thousand questions to ask—but no desire to share the answers with the Dendarii, as they involved things too nascent and precarious to reveal to anyone.

But, perhaps Menolly could adequately determine if Sain really was Pernese, and not someone who inexplicably had a very good command of accents and Pernese jargon. Turning to Quinn, she said, “I think it’s likely she’s who she says she is. I’d like to talk to her further.”

Quinn indicated the bench Sain was sitting on.

Menolly said, “Would you like to hold Diver, Apprentice?” as she walked forward.

Sain didn’t look like she’d had any particular desire to hold a firelizard, but now that it’d been offered, she opened her hands properly to accept the bronze that Menolly was handing her, suggesting some familiarity with them.

To Diver, Menolly silently asked, _Tell me if she’s not trustworthy, or has bad thoughts_. The bronze assented with a small sound.

Then she sat next to the woman, and said, “I hope you don’t mind if I ask some questions to verify you are who you say you are. We’re very far from Pern, and I wasn’t expecting to encounter anyone else from my homeworld out here.”

“I don’t mind. It makes sense. But, Master Menolly…”

Menolly waited.

“I don’t know much of anything. I’m an Apprentice, I’m not really supposed to know anything. Becoming a jump pilot was my whole assignment.”

“That’s fine,” Menolly said. It _was_ fine; Master Robinton had said right out he’d be constraining information, due to the ever-present possibility of fast-penta. “I’m more interested in your background, not your assignment.”

A nod.

“What’s your birth Hold?”

“Crom.”

“The major Hold, or a smaller Hold that looks to it?”

“A crafthold that looks to Crom. Greenrock Hold. We mine copper.”

Menolly had passed through there once, as a Journeywoman. Only passed through, though—hadn’t even stayed the night. It did mine copper, though. “I see. Are your parents still there?”

“No. My mother died from a fever when I was small. My father died in a mine cave-in. I was fostered with my uncle.”

“What does your uncle and his wife do?”

“My uncle never married. But he was a Journeyman miner, and mined copper.”

Menolly nodded. “How did you get out here?”

“Greenrock Hold is mostly mined out, so we moved to Southern Hold when I was still a child, and when Landing opened up, moved to Landing. The Smiths working with AIVAS needed copper, and my uncle and some other miners wanted their own minehold, and didn’t want to give more land to Lord Toric, so starting something near Landing seemed a better fit, especially with the old survey maps giving us ideas of where to start a minehold. I was thinking of becoming a wher-handler—I know they’re ugly and a little strange but I like whers a lot—but my uncle’s friend heard from a sailor at Landing…Master Alemi…that _another_ new Craft was being established, and they were looking for people that were good in enclosed spaces, like a sailor or miner. They especially wanted young people who didn’t have a Craft yet, but were good at navigation and numbers. So I went to Landing, and studied and did my tests, and was invited into the jump pilot program.” Sain laughed suddenly. “And then I found out that the new Craft was headed by _Master Robinton_ and _D’ram_ and," the young woman laughed in delight. "I’m no good at Harpering, but _everyone_ knows how wonderful Master Robinton is, and how good a Weyrleader D’ram was at Ista Weyr.”

The more Sain talked, the more Menolly believed she was genuine. Or, at least, genuinely from Pern. All the little details were right. Silently, she still sent Pol to summon Tuck, and said to Quinn, “I’ve asked Master Tuck to join us, if you don’t mind.” Tuck would be able to double-check to be sure. To Sain she said, “Master Tuck is very familiar with Crom, he’ll want to ask you some additional questions.”

A nod.

Tuck arrived shortly, and Menolly stepped outside into the hall to speak to him.

Quinn, unfortunately, followed.

Menolly said, “We have an Apprentice jump pilot in there that the Dendarii…rescued…during the fight a while ago. She says she’s a part of the Diplomat Craft, that she has no directly assigned Master but that D’ram is in her chain-of-command, and that she was returning to Beta Hold to walk the tables and become Journeyman. I haven’t asked her _how_ she got messed up in…” she glanced at Quinn. “Whatever happened today. She says she’s originally from Crom, lived in Toric’s territory for a while before moving with her uncle to Landing, then passed tests to be accepted into the Diplomat Craft as an Apprentice to become a jump pilot.”

“Hm,” Tuck said. “That all sounds very possible.”

Menolly nodded. “But I’d like your take on it, too. I remember you were assigned to Crom for quite a while.”

He gave her a long look out of the corner of his eye, but nodded. “I was. I’ll speak with her.”

“Good. Thank you.”

They returned to the room, and she introduced Tuck to Sain and leaned against the desk as Tuck asked similar questions as Menolly, but with more detail here and there.

Tuck, like Menolly, was very careful not to ask Sain where she’d gotten her jump pilot training, or to touch on anything related to what Robinton was currently involved in. And Sain kept up a façade that she was only an Apprentice, and only knew things about piloting a ship.

Although Menolly didn’t think it was a façade. Which is why she listened with half-an-ear.

Her other ear, the one “listening” to Beauty, was elsewhere in the ship, trying to follow what was going on, which mostly involved the previously-amiable Admiral Naismith brooding darkly and muttering to himself over the reports coming in, and occasionally demanding more information from his underlings. Beauty didn’t exactly perceive him as angry. He was agitated, and his mind whirling at the speed of light, although Menolly couldn’t catch what it was thinking without the aid of fast-penta.

The things that came out of people’s mouths involved _raiders_ and _virus_ and _medical examination_.

She had no idea how that all came together into anything she could understand. Firelizards were more useful for examining people moving and doing things that were obvious, and in a world where people reacted to words rapidly reconfiguring themselves on technological hides, the advantage of their spying was somewhat less. Beauty couldn’t read, and her eyes didn't track words and paragraphs like Menolly's would have, making it impossible for Menolly to catch anything but the biggest, most stationary words.

Eventually, Quinn moved closer to Menolly and said, her lovely-but-scarred face suspicious, “Come into the hall, please.”

Catching Tuck’s eye, Menolly nodded at him to keep going and followed Commander Quinn into the Hallway.

Quinn said, “We refrained from questioning her about how she came to be on the ship that attacked us out of respect for you and Master Robinton. But it might be important. Please ask her.” A pause. “We do have fast-penta available to use.”

“As you might imagine, I do not like fast-penta,” Menolly said. “It _won’t_ be used on her.”

“I’m afraid Admiral Naismith will have the final say.”

“Apprentice Sain,” Menolly said. “Is an Apprentice Diplomat of Pern. She is to be awarded the same protections that I, or Masters Jancis and Tuck, or _Master Robinton_ , are given.”

Commander Quinn didn’t say anything.

Menolly feeling useless, frustrated, and vulnerable, said, “I still don’t know what just happened when the siren went off. Please tell me enough so that I can interview Apprentice Sain effectively.”

With a sigh, Quinn said, “We were attacked. The ship descriptions and signatures match with what we have on the Võ Company, a B-tier mercenary outfit that has dabbled in raiding under one of its previous commanders. They never opened communications to talk or make demands, but launched directly into an electronic attack, which seems to have effectively penetrated our firewalls long enough to compromise the implants of several of our sensor specialists, as well as the ship sensors themselves, which allowed them to get unusually close without detection. That didn’t hold up once we got in visual range and a weapons lock on them, however, and we were able to blow out their engines and weapons, and board. Their crew was captured, along with some prisoners from their previous missions. Standard voice analysis flagged this particular woman as a compatriot of yours, due to her unique accent, which is the only reason you are down here. She claims to have been imprisoned by the Võ Company about three months ago, while en route to Beta Colony. We would like to know more.”

Shells. _If only AIVAS was with us!_ He’d be able to translate that into something she could make heads or tails of.

…she _did_ have Jancis at her disposal…

But if she needed a deeper explanation, it would make sense to ask the Dendarii, or Quinn even, to explain in more detail. Jancis was one of the best on Pern, but as they had all found out, Pern was very much behind the curve when it came to the best of the galaxy.

Thinking it over, Menolly decided that she could still ask Sain what happened, and discuss anything else in private with Jancis.

(The poor woman! Menolly was nervous being out here with only Jancis and Tuck. How had they ended up sending a lone Apprentice across the Nexus all on her own? Had that been intended? Or a failure of the fledgling Craft that Robinton was trying to create?)

(Unless she _hadn’t_ been alone…)

(Which they’d only discover if they talked.)

Menolly said, “I’ll ask her. She is holding my firelizard; he’ll vouch for her trustworthiness…or not.”

Quinn frowned, but when Menolly turned and went back into the room, she followed.

#

Tuck was making Sain laugh with something witty, and Menolly hated to be the one who turned the conversation back to grimmer things. Still, she sat next to Sain, and when the young woman turned to her, said, “As I understand it, you were returning to Beta Colony to walk the tables?”

A nod.

“How did you end up with the Võ Company? You were a prisoner?”

The laughter faded from Sain’s eyes, and she looked at her hands again, the silver circles of her jump pilot contacts glinting against her dark skin in the light. “Yes. I needed to get to Beta. And there were ships going that way, but they were sort of expensive. And boring. And I just graduated, so I thought I’d use the network and get a little use out of my status.”

“Network?”

Sain said, “Things… _change_ a little, once you get your spots,” and she touched her temple. “It’s like getting a secret, special rank, even if you’re still only an Apprentice. Most jump pilots get an extra berth for a friend, as a job perk. So if you ask around, you can ride for free with another pilot. They just want to talk to other pilots during the trip instead of normal folk. And I’m so new, I thought—I don’t really have a Master, since galactics don’t do Masters and Apprentices. They just shove you into a big faceless class, like you’re a little child learning your numbers and letters and not a Crafter—“

Menolly grimaced. Some Harpers did have classes to teach that were truthfully too big for a single Harper to really handle well, especially smaller holds.

“But the people doing the actual job, jumping through wormholes, they’re _interesting_ people, and if you can get one to talk, there’s just _so much_ you can learn. Kind of like having a pseudo-Master to study under. And pilots do it all the time, ask other pilots if they have a buddy-berth open for another pilot. And I’ve been among galactics for turns now—I’m not a _complete_ novice or small-Hold rube.”

Sain had been amongst galactics longer than Menolly had. And yet _this_ had happened.

The woman continued. “It went fine for the first three hops. Then on the fourth, we were attacked. They forced my friend to pilot her ship elsewhere, I don’t know where, and took me prisoner on another ship, in case they got a ship I was compatible with. New graduates have forty, fifty, sixty turns of service in us. The entire life span of a brand-new ship. We’re _valuable._ Nobody told us _that_ at graduation. You think they’d have _warned_ us. But the galactics don’t have _Masters,”_ she said, a touch of bitterness in her tone. “Students are just faceless cogs. Sometimes you don’t even have teachers, and learn from a _com._ And it’s not nearly as nice as learning from AIVAS.”

Menolly put her hand on the woman’s shoulder, and rubbed it comfortingly. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.” The words felt empty, like they couldn’t express the true horror Menolly was feeling, and she vowed to talk to Robinton—and D’ram—to see how they could prevent something like this from happening again. “The Hall will do what we can to make it right.”

A brief smile. “It’s nice being with honorable folk, again.”

Menolly smiled back. Then she said, _“Did_ they have a ship you could pilot?”

Sain looked up at her with an incredulous look. “No. I can only pilot Pernese ships. But I didn’t tell _them_ that. They might have put me out an airlock. I told them it was a new model coming out on Beta, and that it’d hit the markets in a year or two. It’s pretty common to get new graduates set up with upcoming headsets before the shipyards are finished building the ships.”

To Menolly’s knowledge, there _were_ no Pernese ships at the current time, being built or finished. She didn’t even think AIVAS had a prototype blueprint yet. Which meant Sain could only pilot a training simulator.

Sain continued, “So they stuck me in a room and fed me and forgot about me.”

“Were you hurt?”

Sain said, “They were fardling _bastards,_ but not stupid enough to torture someone who might take them through a wormhole someday.”

Thank the golden shells for little favors, at least. Menolly said, “If you were with the Võ Company for three months, is there _anything_ you might be able to tell the Dendarii about them?”

“I can try.”

“Please do. And _thank you,_ Sain.”

#

Miles _knew_ he was being a nuisance pacing back and forth behind the chairs of his specialists, peering around their shoulders at the work they were doing. Luckily, his specialists also knew this was normal behavior for him, and had learned to cope with it.

He didn’t want to miss _anything_. This entire attack had operated on the principle of blindness. No negotiation over coms, no mysterious note delivered beforehand cordially inviting him to a space battle, _nothing_. And when people didn’t bother to _talk_ to him, it became rather difficult to talk _them_ into (or out of) something!

Even more perturbing were the vectors of attack. The mail buoy, which was close enough to the major hubs to have the latest defenses (unlike the often-overrun buoys of more distant, unpopulated systems), seemed to have successfully gotten a virus into their system that substituted false sensor readings at a critical time. Even more alarmingly, two of his sensor technicians with ocular, auditory, or network implants had had their implants compromised somehow, so that what they thought they saw wasn’t actually what was showing up on sensors. Only the fact that an all-natural junior specialist had been able to convince them to raise the alarm had allowed them to scramble to get defenses up in time. And even that wouldn’t have happened if the worm corrupting the sensors themselves hadn’t been slightly off-sync long enough for the junior specialist to notice _and_ convince his superiors that their senses couldn’t be trusted.

Now he had two specialists being attended to by medics, and Miles could only hope he wasn’t going to get a sudden notice that they’d had to put the two on ice so their brains wouldn’t be scrambled by something horrid that had leaked beyond the implant sandbox. If that happened, they would need to be transported to an Illyrican hospital that specialized in treating damaged sensory implants and implant virology.

“Decompiling is done,” someone said.

Miles pounced. “What’ve you got?”

A frustrated noise. “Obfuscated. Not using the usual tricks. It’s going to take time to make heads or tails of this. Maybe a week.”

Unsurprising, but disappointing all the same. Electronic warfare depended a lot on the brains completing projects and programs months ahead of time, then deploying them in nanosecond battles where the best programming and best com system won. Human reaction times were not fast enough to actively penetrate or defend systems from scratch in real-time like the media pretended.

Checking his coms, he sifted through reports from the interrogations that had been going on. The captain of the Võ Company swore she was innocent, even under fast-penta. Her second had been in charge of this operation, and as she’d been gearing up to retire, he’d been given full responsibility for their recent operations. Until now, his touch had been golden. Talk to him.

Except, of course, the second-in-command of the Võ Company had been found in his bedroom messily decapitated by the door of the garbage chute somehow. So it was a _little difficult_ to question him! And it also made no sense. Experienced mercenaries knew you didn’t always come out on top, and the Dendarii were known for treating prisoners well. There was no reason to take such a final (and messy) way out.

The rest of the officers were a bust when it came to figuring out why there’d been a fight at all—and they all thought the second was still alive. And the cameras that might give clues as to how a man had been decapitated by the door of a trash chute were mysteriously deleted. Or rather, _not_ deleted exactly—the media drives didn’t show any evidence of deletions at all. The data had simply never hit the drives to begin with, as if the sensors had all been cut at specified times and the data had never made it there at all.

Which was a consistent methodology with what happened on _his_ ship. Suggesting there was a possibility that a third player had pitted them against one another.

A note from Quinn flashed onto his com. One of the prisoners from the Võ Company ship had been detected by dialect analysis as probably Pernese. Quinn had gone ahead and involved Master Menolly in that interrogation, partly because it made sense and partly because it might stop the spying firelizards from popping here and there all over the ship as Menolly tried to figure out what was going on, and now Master Menolly was claiming the freshly-graduated jump pilot as one of their own, and trying to extend their own diplomatic immunity over her.

Finding fresh jump pilot graduates as prisoners on raider ships was not unusual. There were always a few well-heeled idiots in new-model ships zooming around the Nexus just begging (from a pirate point of view) to be relieved of their fancy toys.

The existing pilots could be troublesome or too loyal to their previous employers, so raiders preferred to replace them with pilots that didn’t know the previous owner of the ship, and so didn’t necessarily harbor the same suicidal urges to take a ship into a wormhole and never exit the other side.

Fresh jump pilots often graduated with jump sets that weren’t on the market yet, but which would control the next generation of ships, and a raider that could recruit a youngster could be set for the next few decades.

The _oddity_ in this situation was that the woman was Pernese. Miles had been under the impression that the Pernese did not have significant galactic resources (especially not jump pilots), which is _why_ they’d hired him. For a jump pilot to show up _now_ seemed a very odd coincidence.

Glancing up at the golden firelizard that had been keeping them company from a covert niche behind a com screen set into the ceiling, Miles told Quinn that it was fine if the jump pilot threw in with the Pernese, but from a safety standpoint the jump pilot must be examined by medics before she was allowed to connect to anything electronic. There were a number of recreations on the ship designed to connect directly to jump ship implants, as pilots liked their comforts and nobody wanted to go through a wormhole with a discontent pilot), and he expected a transcript of the interview to go over at his leisure. He also wanted to know what model of jump ship drive her implants were for.

(…did she have the ability that Master Robinton claimed, of being able to pilot any ship, anywhere? He asked Quinn that too.)

Taking a moment once again to try to lure the golden firelizard to him using a piece of moistened ration bar (the queen just stared at him like he was nuts, her blue-green eyes whirling rapidly), and once again telling one of his people that a broom to chase her away wouldn’t be necessary, Miles returned to his brooding and pacing and the occasional order as the aftermath of the battle continued to unfold.

#

The physical cleanup of the battle took about a week to complete. The resolution of the mystery was ongoing, and didn’t look like it was going to be solved anytime soon, no matter how many times they combed the Võ Company’s ships.

There was _something_ he was missing.

Which was probably contained in the dead man’s head. Which was on ice, because he wasn’t going to make the mistake twice of prematurely cremating a potentially-useful body.

The innocent (for very specific measures of innocence) captain of the Võ Company was released under the regular POW agreements the Dendarii usually adhered to in the Nexus, and she assured him he wouldn’t see her again for all the money in the world. Miles headhunted some of their best people to add to his own, put former prisoners in a dorm to be released at their next stop at a major Nexus hub, and sent the rest packing in the remaining Võ Company ships that hadn’t had their engines and weapons blown out.

Miles didn’t say anything to the Pernese regarding the roaming of their firelizards during and after the battle. He did assign someone to brainstorm Dendarii protocol when it came to the ownership of firelizards among non-officers. Master Menolly hadn’t been lying when she said they went where they would…he had observed for himself that the little queen really could vanish out of (and go into) rooms completely inaccessible by normal physical means. It made more sense to adapt than to complain uselessly that the rules of secrecy and privacy had changed. Also, once the battle was behind them, the firelizards resumed their previous patterns and stopped lurking around specialist consoles, except when one of their owners was also in the same room with them.

He did want to fast-penta the Pernese’s new jump pilot Apprentice Sain, but after some contemplation, decided he wanted firelizard eggs and cooperation from Master Menolly more. Quinn’s actions on Beta Colony, unfortunately, had made Menolly take a militant stance against the use of fast-penta. Supposedly Master Robinton had had an irregular response to it, and had been of poor health recently to begin with, so the Pernese believed the drug was dangerous.

And it was, and he couldn’t entirely fault them for that belief. Master Robinton wouldn’t be the first person with an adverse reaction to fast-penta, nor the last. Formulation of different types of fast-penta to get around allergies or to better work on people of certain genetic descents was a major industry all in itself, and individuals of certain genetic backgrounds were of especial interest to all sorts of recruiters due to genetic resistance or immunity.

They did eventually begin their journey towards their original destination and its mystery, Miles still extremely discontent with the non-resolution of the most recent mystery.

He hoped with enough prodding, one issue or another would be resolved.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leeeeerooooyyyyyyy Jenkinnnnssssss!

**Chapter Eighteen**

It occurred briefly to Robinton, as he sipped at his toast to his mother, and avoided watching her step off of stage because he didn’t want that memory burned into his brain, that he should perhaps begin considering where he’d stay for the night. His heart hurt—not his mechanical one, but the emotional one that still beat in his chest—and he wanted nothing more than to drown himself in wine and forgetfulness and let tomorrow be a new day.

But tasks seemed hard right now, too much effort, so he focused on simply drinking. If you were drunk enough, even the hardest stone floor of a hold seemed like a fine mattress.

They did not talk of ships or of anything else of importance as they enjoyed the wine. They listened to the Harpers playing—Robinton no longer let himself look at the stage at all, too many faces were familiar and gone, although AIVAS blatantly stared, recording—and drank the Benden wine, and some beer when Thorne expressed an interest, and talked of little things, little details about Pern culture or galactics or whatever.

Eventually, Captain Thorne expressed the need to relieve themselves, and Robinton pointed the direction to the Gather toilets.

And Robinton was left alone, staring into his wineglass, with AIVAS still hyper-focused on the stage, when a heavy hand fell on Robinton’s shoulder.

“Harper.”

Robinton jumped.

AIVAS went for a stunner hidden in a pocket in his clothes—

—and there was D’ram simply standing there, as if he wasn’t a solution to half their problems in dragonrider form.

“D’ram!” Robinton said in astonishment. Then he jumped to his feet, and was clasping the bronzerider’s forearms like a rope thrown into deep, dark waters, before D’ram pulled him into an equally enthusiastic embrace, thumping his back hard enough to bruise. Then, more carefully, D’ram touched his implant at the back of his neck, making sure it was there.

In his ear, D’ram said, “What’re you _doing_ all the way back when, haunting your loved ones? It never does anyone any good, lurking in the past. Trust me, I know.”

Robinton pulled away to stare at him, and shook his head wordlessly for a few moments, and touched D’ram’s wherhides, his shoulders, just to make sure he was really solid and not some stress-induced hallucination. “I _never_ intended to be here. It was an accident! How by the names of all the Queens that ever Hatched did you _find_ me?”

D’ram blinked. “I thought you called. Tiroth _said_ it was you. You said—you said, ‘We’re safe, we’re returning!’ And that you needed my help. So we tried to find you, and couldn’t. So we hunted some more, and Tiroth heard your sadness. He said, the Harper’s in pain, his mother’s gone. So we went to the Harper Hall, asked Sebell to help us with the records, to find the date. Went to Landing to generate star coordinates for that date. And followed you here. Found the wrong you once, but I don’t think he was any the wiser, thought I knew F’lon or something. We ferried him to where he was going, then tried again.”

“I—“ Robinton said, at a complete loss of words.

D’ram pushed him back and looked him over with a critical eye. “I see your hair is still short, so you must not be that much older than when you left.”

“A month, perhaps two.”

“Well, let’s get you back home. Unless you want attend the Gather? Is it a special one for you?”

Robinton gave D’ram an odd, wry smile. “It’s a little more complicated than that. D’ram, let me introduce you to AIVAS,” and he gestured at the amber-eyed androgynoid sitting at the table watching them, stunner vanished back into their clothing.

“Bronzerider D’ram, rider of Tiroth,” AIVAS said in the baritone he used at Landing, and rose and held out his slender but strong hand to shake. Then his voice changed to the lyrical tenor he used in this chassis. “I’m AIVAS. We’ve met before, obviously, but I didn’t look like this.”

D’ram blinked, then shook the hand offered. Then he said, “Why don’t we go over by Tiroth, away from this crowd?”

Robinton hesitated, looking around for Captain Thorne, then decided he could send Zair to find the Thorne—after an appropriate amount of time so as not to ambush the poor herm while they were still on the toilet. “Yes, let’s. I’ll bring the wine!” Robinton said, gathering up the skin and glasses.

“Why am I not surprised?” D’ram chuckled.

#

Sitting on a low stone wall that marked one far edge of the Gather square, with Tiroth looming benevolently over them, Robinton told D’ram everything. Beta Colony, their closest (known) neighbors, who were as advanced as the Ancients. The establishment of Beta Hold, the Pernese “embassy”, which Lytol had stayed behind to nurture. The mechanical body that let AIVAS walk around like anyone else.

The severe, _severe_ disadvantage of Pern being so technologically behind, even with access to Ancient secrets, and the historical actions of Cetaganda invading a similarly formerly-isolated colony, trying to take over a planet called Barrayar. The Nexus, unfortunately, was dangerous for planets like Pern.

Together, Robinton and AIVAS laid out the hope that perhaps a ship that could go _between_ would be a big enough advantage to keep any would-be galactic Faxes from invading Pern. Menolly had been sent further into the Nexus to pursue one part of that puzzle. But even if she succeeded in gaining them the knowledge they needed to create more ships like the Mastersinger Merelan, those ships were costly, and the Pernese mark was all but worthless to galactics. Making finances yet another problem to conquer.

But not the biggest problem. Their biggest pressure was time. Time to put projects into motion, time for projects to mature. To do everything Robinton needed to do, he needed more people, more manpower. Robinton had recruited a ship with a large enough cargo hold to house dragons, hoping that someone would be willing to help him take manpower to the past, on the galactic side of the wormhole, so that the assistance he direly needed, and the funds for more ships to protect the Rukbat system, would be mature in the now.

D’ram was very, very quiet when Robinton put forth the idea of taking Pernese agents back in time to begin projects. He said, “I thought you being here was an accident?”

“It was,” Robinton assured him. “I wanted to obfuscate the route home and not lead armed men and women to our doorstep.”

“And I wanted to examine a galactic-style jump drive in detail,” AIVAS added. “Which this allowed me to do.”

Robinton said, “I piloted the Ariel here, but somehow, on the very last jump through the wormhole, I accidentally visualized _this_ when, instead of the proper one. I was nostalgic for Pern—but ended up thinking of my youth. _Before_ thread, _before_ AIVAS—no offense, my friend— _before_ everything.”

At D’ram’s deep frown, AIVAS told him, “Visualization of our end-point should be of no factor during a standard wormhole transit. It should _not_ have mattered. That it _did_ suggests there _is_ a way to duplicate the ability of firelizards and dragons to go _between_. And _between_ time.”

“So your…mistake was good?” D’ram asked, arms crossed as he frowned.

“We survived it,” Robinton said, “And it gave AIVAS a tremendous amount of data to analyze. Our problem is that there are currently twenty time-lost men and women on the ship if we’re not able to take the wormhole back _whens_. They have friends and families in our _when_ that they will want to return to. I’ve spoken to Captain Thorne,” and here Robinton twisted around, searching for the herm, without finding them. “Zair, go find Captain Thorne please, and bring them here. I can’t imagine they’re still using the toilets.”

Zair made a happy sound and vanished.

“As I was saying, I’ve spoken to Captain Thorne, and if at all possible, we do not want to lose the ship decades into the past if we can possibly avoid it. But if we can’t avoid it, we need to transport twenty people to the correct _when_ , so they can return to their lives.”

D’ram ran a hand over his short, diluted-copper hair. “If Tiroth and I hadn’t found you, what would you have done?”

“I would have reached out to F’lon,” Robinton said. “I think Simanith would have recognized me, and reassured F’lon that I was myself, just…older.”

“You think _Simanith_ would have _recognized_ you?” D’ram sounded incredulous.

Robinton blinked. “Well he spoke to me, quite often. Ah, in _our_ present, dragons in general sometimes say a thing to me now and again, in aggregate. I am greatly honored by it,” and here he gave a little bow to Tiroth. “But individually, they don’t speak to me as much as Simanith did. So I held out a hope that he _did_ remember me, more than dragons usually do, and that it might reassure F’lon.”

D’ram said, “…were you weyrmates?”

Robinton tilted his head. “Larna, F’lar’s mother, was his weyrmate. And later F’lon spent time with Manora. F’nor’s mother.”

“That wasn’t exactly what I asked,” D’ram said.

Robinton paused for a long second, then said, “…is it relevant?”

D’ram sighed and said, “No. I’m simply being a gossip. 

#

She should have only performed one song. She _wanted_ to perform twenty, she _wanted_ to give them all the songs they asked for.

In the end, she sang three songs, and it was nearly too much for her.

Afterwards, she rested in the Harper tent, wafting a fan at her face. It wasn’t so much that she was warm, but that the effort had caused her to break out into a cold sweat.

“Do you need a Healer?” a concerned Journeyman who’d been told too many tales about her health (most true, she resentfully admitted) asked, hovering near, as if torn between his duty to keep an eye on her, and his duty to perform at the Gather.

“I think a little bit of rest, and perhaps a little bit of Benden wine, is all I need,” she said with a gentle smile for the worried young man. He looked nothing like Robinton, but she missed her son all the same.

The Journeyman vanished, presumably to find her a glass of wine, and she waved the fan at her face some more, before deciding it was doing little for her cold sweat. She closed the fan with a click, and pretended to serenely survey the Gather, all while her heart raced and each breath seemed to lack a little of the air she needed. Not enough to make her pass out; just enough to make her feel permanently winded for no obvious reason.

After a while, someone returned, but it wasn’t the Journeyman who’d been assigned by some Master or other to look over her while Petiron was gone to another Hold. At first she thought it was a young man, for he wore the typical shirt and trousers, but after a longer look she realized it was a young woman with a handsome face doing what many women over the centuries had done (and many more would in the future) by dressing up as a man. Her handsome face made the effort a little more convincing than some, but the way she was shaped under the shirt at the chest and waist gave her away, despite the sock stuffed into her pants.

“Master Merelan?” the woman said, and she had a low alto voice that was nearly tenor. She also had the most peculiar accent Merelan had ever heard—in fact, she couldn’t place it at all.

(For a moment, she regretted not traveling everywhere like a Journeyman did. Aside from the small holds of her youth, Singers mostly went from major hold to major hold, with so much of Pern left unexplored in between. Her family outings and health had only taken her a little beyond that.)

“I’m not a Master, only a Singer,” she corrected.

“You’re not the Mastersinger Merelan?”

She laughed at that—just the way it was _said_ made it sound like she was the _head_ of a Crafthall! A woman could dream, perhaps. “I am Merelan. Perhaps we’ll just leave it at that, yes? No need for ranks. May I ask who you are?”

A pause, and then the woman said, “Belle. Your son sent me over here to get you.”

Merelan blinked. “Robinton? He’s at Fort? How— _ah._ Let me guess, F’lon and Simanith have temporarily relocated him away from his assigned post.” Sometimes she felt like she was the only woman outside the Weyr who couldn’t predict which side of the continent her son might be on at any given time.

A sanguine shrug, and Belle said, “I haven’t questioned him on his itinerary, ma’am. I just do what I’m told.”

“He couldn’t come get me himself?”

“It’s a Gather, and you can’t just leave some things unattended. That’s how mischief happens,” and there was a glint of humor in the woman’s eye.”

“True.” Merelan decided that, oddly winded or not, she could manage a sedate walk across the Gather to see her favorite (and only) son. “Does he want to show me something?” It wasn’t the anniversary of anything that she could recall.

“He said something about getting drinks,” Belle said, and when Merelan paused to catch her breath, offered her arm gallantly.

A stubborn part of her wanted to carry on without the aid. The gracious, pragmatic part of her decided there was nothing wrong in propping up the woman’s guise of being a gallant young man, and she folded her hand around the offered arm. It was both thicker than she’d imagined, and less soft. “I can’t imagine that he couldn’t bring a skin of wine over hims—ah. He did it, didn’t he?”

Belle shrugged.

“He got his hands on a _keg_ of wine somehow,” she theorized. Merelan found a bit of strength to start walking, if only because she was interested in Robinton’s feat of procurement.

Belle snickered.

“Where a Journeyman could _keep_ such a thing, I don’t know, but when you have friends in high places I suppose it becomes more manageable. I expect F’lon is around, too? And bronze Simanith?”

“I haven’t met them,” Belle said. Then she said, “I’m sure you’ve heard this a thousand times, but you have the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.”

The proclamation had been slightly delayed, but that it came at all made her heart sink. Sometimes, odd people were unexpectedly canny in cornering her, and she hoped she hadn’t been cleverly duped into accompanying someone she shouldn’t. She was typically cleverer when Petiron wasn’t around to deter people, but she had overdone it on stage today, and she was not thinking as quickly as she usually did, and here they were. And she was in no shape to run or spend any energy trying to get away. So instead of pulling away immediately, and letting it show that she knew, she smiled gently at the woman and said, “Thank you.”

It was not a response that invited much of a reply, so they walked in silence towards the edge of the gather, and Merelan searched the crowd for an excuse to leave the stranger’s side before they got too far away from help. But the sun was low in the sky, and people were much more interested in food and drink than the pair of them, and she didn’t see any familiar Harpers.

But then something unusual happened, and a stray firelizard—bronze—appeared and made sounds at Belle.

“Oh! I’ve never seen a firelizard so far inland, and so close to people,” Merelan exclaimed in delight.

Belle glanced at her with a frown, then shrugged and said, “I think he just wants us to follow.”

Which they did, the delightful little bronze firelizard flying ahead, then back, then circling around a few times to make sure they were keeping up.

And there were two men and a woman standing near the small stone wall the delimited the edge of the gather. The man with his back to her was tall, and had shorn dark hair speckled with a bit of silver here and there. His shirt was turned up at the neck, as if warding off sunburn. The other man was an unknown dragonrider, a simple knot at his shoulder showing that his dragon was bronze. Oddly, he didn’t wear Benden colors at all, but had a strand of Harper blue twined through the knot, and he wore the shield-shaped badge of a minor hold that bore the Harper sigil. But she knew of no minor hold that shared a sigil with the Harper Hall. No matter how much the Harper Hall was dismissed as being nothing more than baby-minders and theatricals, a new hold would have to be pretty brazen to appropriate the same icon and colors. The Harper Hall wasn’t the loftiest Craft, but it was _old_ and there were Traditions.

And the man’s weyrhides were neatly mended and clean, but showed _much_ more wear and some odd scarring she’d never seen before. His hides were heavier and of slightly different design than anything she’d seen at Benden, too.

This odd dragonrider was so _puzzling_ to her that the things they were saying washed over her for a moment without being comprehended.

“No. I’m simply being a gossip,” the bronzerider said. “Especially as you won’t need to contact him now.” He gave the other man a warning _look_ , which had some fond exasperation in it.

The other man looked away, the set of his broad shoulders slightly wilting, and said in an oddly familiar voice. “No, I won’t.”

Looking over the tall man’s shoulder, the rider spotted them, and jerked his head at Belle. “Is this Captain Thorne?”

The tall man turned to face them.

It was Robinton.

And instantly, Merelan rejected that knowledge as impossible. This man was _old_. He had at least twenty turns on her! He had to be one of Petiron’s uncles—

But she’d met a few of Petiron’s uncles in Telgar, and although yes, this man had a resemblance, the only person who _also_ resembled _her_ uncles as well as Petiron’s was Robinton.

This strange, _old_ Robinton’s gaze landed on Belle first, then immediately locked on her, and then she was being regarded with the same sort of horrified shock she felt in return. The man opened his mouth, closed it, and the little bronze firelizard landed on his shoulder. A long hand—bonier and older than she remembered, but the same shape that she’d held in her own many times—went up to the little firelizard as if for comfort.

There was something wrong with this “Robinton’s” clothing too, something was as oddly off about it as the dragonrider’s was.

A long moment of silence stretched between them.

Finally, without speaking, he wrenched his gaze off of her, and directed a withering stare at Belle. The sort of stare she’d never seen Robinton use, but had seen _Petiron_ use dozens of times on unruly students.

“Captain Thorne. A _word_ , please.” The tone would have made Journeyman droop in shame, and Apprentices scramble to hide behind each other.

But it was undoubtedly Robinton’s voice. Somehow.

Belle took her arm back from Merelan, and dropped a little mocking bow, worthy of any Harper. Smiling wickedly, she said, "I am at your command, Masterdiplomat," in her strange, foreign accent.

Judging from Robinton’s face, he didn’t believe that.

Merelan didn’t either, and watched them as they walked a bit away, out of earshot, leaving her alone with the strange dragonrider, and the strange woman who vaguely looked weyrbred.

#

Robinton was not above spitting nails when he thought a situation demanded it. Theatrics sometimes were warranted _._ So when they were out of earshot, he turned to the feline-arrogant herm and said, _“_ Explain to me why you’d subject a _chronically ill_ woman who’s already done a set on stage tonight to the strain of _this!”_ He encompassed the entire catastrophe with an out-flung hand.

“Explain to _me_ ,” Captain Thorne said, leaning forward intently with their arms crossed over their breasts, “Why you’d let your incredibly talented mother with the voice of an angel die an early death to fulfill a some _predestined fate_ when Dendarii medics may be able to fix her? Or at least put her on ice until we get back to Beta Colony?”

Robinton rocked back on his heels like he’d been slapped.

Thorne continued, “She’s what, forty years old, at most? That’s barely a third of a lifetime. Bring her with us, fix her up, and let her live out her one-hundred-and-twenty years.”

One-hundred twenty? No, he mustn’t get distracted by that. 

But what he _did_ see was a grave misunderstanding of how _between_ times worked. Captain Thorne wasn’t the first to come up with ideas changing events that had already happened. 

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Robinton choked back the anger. Incoherent rage (fear, despair) wouldn’t fix this. “Traveling _between_ times does not work as you are imagining, Captain Thorne. You cannot simply wing back in time to kill your own father and somehow prevent your own birth, or avert any other event. If someone _died_ in a given turn, you cannot swoop in and undo that, because you already _lived through the death_. Because it _happened_ , you cannot _undo_ it. You are able to _complete_ an action—Lady Lessa was able to bring the Weyrs forward, because she’d _already_ done it. But you cannot _alter_ something you already know is conclusively _fact_.”

“But _is_ it?” the herm pressed.

“Yes, it is. I _lived_ through it.”

“But _did_ you?” Thorne asked, and gave him a canny look. “Or did you give a funeral for some decoy that _looked_ like her? Your society still uses wagons and horses,” and Thorne gestured off at a field where runners grazed. “If a sophisticated fake was in a coffin, could you tell the difference? This wouldn’t be the first body the Dendarii have planted to fake a death.”

Once again, Robinton rocked back on his heels. _AIVAS?_

_They do have a point. If this chassis of mine went inactive, would they cut me open and examine my innards, or simply bury me? Even in the Ninth Pass, I think the latter. At least, until they learn galactic Smiths can make machines of this complexity._

A terrible, poisonous hope rose up in him, that he _could_ convince his mother to come into the future, and be healed, and be _a part of his life_ again.

And it _hurt_ , because if she’d never _permanently_ left Petiron before, when he was a boy and needed it, why would she now? When she was sick and felt vulnerable? And he a man grown? Would she be prepared at all to jump right into the crazy future-world _he_ lived in, that made even _his_ head spin like a top? (The Oldtimers had—but that had been duty and boredom, and they’d brought their families and friends with.)

Could he convince her?

(Was it even _right_ to?)

Robinton stood silent for a long moment, hope and pragmatism sparring viciously inside him, leaving bloody wounds behind. Then he whispered, _“Why?”_

Thorne gave a careless shrug of a shoulder. “Because I can. What good is time travel if you can’t at least _try_ to change things?” They looked around, at the Gather. “I’m sure your people here are dying of all sorts of easily-curable sicknesses, and we can’t take them all with us. But we can help her.” The herm’s eyes narrowed. “And your willingness to just lie down and accept fate because _that’s just how your time-travel works_ does not sit right with me at all.”

Robinton stared at them. “That is quite _blunt_ of you, Captain Thorne. And makes some deeply erroneous assumptions about me.”

Thorne said, “If Admiral Naismith had wanted a more diplomatic officer to accompany you, he should have come himself. Although—there’s an _excellent_ chance he would have done something _far_ more disruptive than this. You’re getting off easy with me, Master ‘oops I _accidentally took a wormhole back in time’._ ”

#

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” the dragonrider said as Belle—also known as ‘Captain Thorne’—went off with her son’s aged doppelganger.

“I’m Merelan,” she said. “Wife of Master Petiron. He’s the Composition Master at the Harper Hall.”

“You’re the Mastersinger Merelan?”

“I am a Singer,” she said. “It is an auxiliary rank within the Hall that falls under the Masterharper’s purview. There is no formal ‘Mastersinger’, as that would imply the Singers are a separate Craft. I don’t know why you people keep calling me that.”

“You are Master Robinton’s _mother,”_ the dragonrider said as the light of understanding entered his eyes.

She was silent for a long moment, watching Captain Thorne and…”Robinton”…clash in a battle of wills, which was clearly evident in their body language even if she couldn’t hear the words. Captain Thorne seemed to be winning. “Yes. He…recently walked the tables. My son did. _That_ man over there walked the tables a very long time ago. Who are you?”

“I am D’ram, rider of bronze Tiroth,” he said. “Next to me is AIVAS.”

“I don’t recognize your badge.”

He hesitated, then said, “Cove hold. I am technically retired. It’s a small tropical hold on the eastern side of the Southern Continent.”

“Why does it use the Harper sigil?”

D’ram looked over at the two people arguing, cocked his head in that way that dragonriders do when talking to their dragons, and said, “It was built for Master Robinton to use upon his retirement as Masterharper of Pern. He let in a few freeloaders like Tiroth and I,” and the old bronzerider chuckled. “So I no longer wear the colors of Ista Weyr.”

Merelan knew all the words he was using. The _order_ they were arranged in—it was all _off_.

Masterharper Gennel wasn’t retired, and while Robinton was being trained by Gennel and was the clear successor, and she fully expected him to be Masterharper some time in his thirties (not entirely because she was his mother), things were never certain until they happened.

“Ista Weyr,” she murmured. “It’s abandoned.”

“Mm-hmm,” D’ram said. “So it is. In this when.”

She had no idea how to respond to that.

More quickly than she expected, the two returned, and Robinton’s posture spoke of worry and uncertainty. He came to stop before her, and then simply said, “Mother.”

Even though she wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, it hurt to see her son carry so much worry on his shoulders, so she tried for a bit of levity. “I feel like I’m in a rather unorthodox production of that winter story about the ghosts of the past, present, and future. Tell me, Robinton, I haven’t turned into some terrible harridan who drives her drudges into poverty and despair have I? You aren’t here to tell me to turn my life around, are you? Before it’s too late?”

She’d been trying to soothe him with a little humor, but before she could take it back, she saw a barb had landed, one she hadn’t even intended to throw.

“I,” he said hesitantly. “Am at this gather entirely by mistake. But yes…it seems I need to talk to you and ask you to make…a very difficult decision about your future.”

#

They found a table at the Gather which still had the remains of drinks and dirty plates, but no people, and Merelan was very glad to sit down. She wasn’t sure if she could give any of this the attention it deserved if standing alone drained her so much.

The auburn-haired, golden-skinned and golden-eyed woman vanished and returned with wine for her, and she took the glass and sipped at it gratefully. Then she said to Robinton, “Why is that firelizard so friendly? He’s just sitting on your shoulder, not a care in the world!”

A smile spread on Robinton’s face. “This is my bronze firelizard, Zair. I Impressed him, so he looks to me. Almost like a miniature dragon—but much sillier. Do you want to hold him?”

“Yes, of course.”

Robinton came over to sit next to her on the bench, and transferred the creature into her hands. Zair was warm and soft like dragonhide, and smelled similar, but she could feel his little heart beating much more rapidly.

“Does he speak to you?” she asked.

“In emotions, mostly. He doesn’t always make sense—he’s like a small toddler, always on the go, being distracted by everyone and everything.”

“How did you Impress him?”

“My…” a pause, worried smile, and he glanced at her before clearly editing his words. “My Journeywoman had nine of them when she first came to the Harper Hall, and brought two eggs with her. The little queen was Impressed by my successor, who is now Masterharper Sebell. And my little man here Impressed to me. If you feed them when they hatch, and are kind to them, they will stay with you.”

“To think it’s that simple,” she said in wonder. Then, thoughts swimming in her head, she said, “I am getting the impression that you’re not my Robinton, but one from the future.”

His blue eyes widened slightly, and he said, “I _am_ your Robinton! I’m not different from the Robinton in this _when_ , I’m simply older. As horrifying as that is,” he said, smiling. “I saw the look you gave me,” and a twinkle lit his blue eyes. “Oh, he’s so _old!_ ”

“I—“

He turned and looked over at D’ram. “My mother looks like my daughter,” he said wryly. “I feel positively decrepit! You’re so _young_ ,” he told her wonderingly. “I never _knew_ , I never thought—“ He seemed to shake some thoughts out of his head, and said, “But young men always so confident in their ignorance, aren’t they?” He grinned briefly at her. “I am from the future, yes. That’s not a lie, or deception, or trickery—I have a song to prove it!” and he waggled a finger at her. “One that _you_ taught me!”

“Did I now?” The firelizard in her hands, interested in the idea of a song, left her to jump back up to his shoulder.

“You very much did, mother. At Benden Hold, when you took on Harper duties there. When F’lon was being fostered at the Hold, before he Impressed.” He looked around for something. “Captain Thorne?”

“Masterdiplomat?”

“I do not have a gitar and I blame you for putting me in a situation where I need a gitar to explain things to my mother. Had I _known_ I’d need a gitar, I would have packed one. I don’t suppose you have some technological solution for my lack of gitars? Some _decoy_ gitar, perhaps?” That remark was barbed.

Thorne opened their mouth, but then the very quiet golden-eyed woman who’d brought her wine but hadn’t been introduced yet said, “I can make gitar noises.”

“Bwyarr,” Thorne said quietly.

“I can make high-fidelity gitar sounds from a speaker. Not sloppy mouth-sounds,” AIVAS said, and smiled sweetly at Thorne.

Robinton was surprised into a laugh, and then said, “Unfortunately, AIVAS, we’re at a gather.”

“Play the song,” AIVAS said, and visibly sighed. “We’ll do mouth-sounds.”

Leaning back on the bench, Robinton arranged his hands, and began to pluck out a familiar, discordant tune. Or rather, he plucked, and AIVAS, who must have perfect pitch in addition to her perfect timing, somehow made very realistic gitar notes come from her mouth.

And Robinton sang a song that was very familiar and haunting. “Gone away, gone ahead. Echoes away, gone unanswered. Empty, open, dusty, dead. Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?”

He went through the whole thing, as perfectly as the day he’d learned it at her knee. Then he began again, and this time he emphasized certain words.

Gone _away._ Gone _ahead._

While he was singing, Tiroth came and lay down next to the table, in an open spot big enough to accommodate him. Or Merelan assumed this was Tiroth; the rider gave him a fond glance. Tiroth was small for a bronze, closer to the typical size of a Benden brown, and she noticed he had a few odd scars on his flank.

When Robinton finished singing, D’ram said to her, “In the Ninth Pass, the Weyrwoman Lessa of Benden Weyr, and her dragon Ramoth—“

 _Ninth_ pass?

“—came back to _my_ time, at the end of the Eighth Pass, and asked us to come forward _between_ to her time, where there was only one Weyr left. I was Weyrleader of Ista Weyr at the time, along with my weyrmate, and we followed Lessa forward in time to the Ninth Pass. Once you’ve flown a Pass,” and D’ram shook his head. “It’s difficult to go back to living in an Interval. And because there’s only a single Weyr here now, in _your_ when, there will not be enough riders to protect Pern in a few decades into your future when thread does return.”

“The Question Song,” Robinton said, picking up the story, “Was a clue created by the Masterharper of the Eighth Pass for the Pern of the future. It told us that we had to go back and complete the loop. Bring the Weyrs forward. He left that message for me to pass on to Lessa.”

Merelan turned and looked at D’ram again. “You’re from the past, and Robinton is from the future?”

“I am from both the future and the past, from your point of view,” D’ram said. “I was born during the Eighth Pass, and followed Weyrwoman Lessa and Ramoth several hundred turns into _my_ future, and yours, to fight thread during the Ninth Pass. The Ninth Pass is my home now, I won’t be going back to the past of my youth again.” He glanced at Robinton. “Although apparently I am rescuing _you_ from your own childhood!”

“I am not a child in this when!” Robinton said indignantly. “I am a Journeyman.”

“So, a child.”

“You say that, but I’ll be Masterharper—“ and Robinton wagged a finger to him…and abruptly stopped wagging. And he sighed. “This turn. This exact turn. I believe it was one of the worst turns in my life. I lost my wife. I lost my Master. And…” he paused. “I lost my mother,” he said.

“What?” she said.

“Your heath declines. This turn. It’s autumn now, and a nasty pneumonia is making the rounds.”

_I am dying this turn. Pneumonia._ The thought was oddly clear amidst the brain fog she was dealing with. It was just flopped out there, before her, with little fanfare, like a horrid dead fish. But crystal clear, like the stink of a dead fish was clear.

And as much as she hated to admit it—she tried very hard not to be a diva!—“dying of pneumonia” was not how she wanted her story to end. She didn’t want to give in to an end that was just so…so horrifically, tragically _mundane!_

She tried to take a deep breath. She wasn’t able to—deep breaths were rare these days—and settled for a score of smaller, even ones, as she put her foggy thoughts in order.

Was she being duped?

What a…ridiculous story. She, Faranth help her, had nearly _believed_ them, that this _was_ Robinton, that they weren’t playing some sort of odd prank or trick on her.

But one thing she’d never _asked_ for was foreknowledge of her _death._ She knew her health was poor, that despite all the things she wanted to do in the world—to see, to sing, to _do_ —she simply _couldn’t_ do most of them. But she lived as much as she could. Just because it wasn’t _everything_ she wanted to do didn’t mean she wanted what she had taken from her!

This all seemed like an awful, dirty, nasty trick.

And she wondered…she wondered…was she already bedridden, and this was some fellis-laced nightmare?

_The Harper has more to say_ , someone suddenly said. _This is hard for him too, and he loves you very much._

She turned, and saw Tiroth’s head tilted towards her.

“In the future,” Robinton said. “Beyond thread returning—“ he turned to D’ram. “I can’t believe I just said that. We live in such _bizarre_ times!”

D’ram pointed his chin at Merelan, refocusing her son back on her.

Robinton said, “Beyond thread returning, some turns later we rediscovered our Ancient roots. Our ancestors colonized this planet, colonized Pern, but came here from another planet very far away on ships so incredibly advanced that I can’t explain it all to you. Not even the Mastersmith could. They sail through the sky, from star to star. And they also travel through something called wormholes, which cross distances greater even than _between_. During one such crossing, I accidentally brought myself back to this _when_ , here to my own past. I don’t know how, I am lucky that D’ram and Tiroth heard me and followed me. And—“

Captain Thorne abruptly cut him off and said to Merelan, “Whatever you’re supposed to die of here is probably curable on my ship. If not my ship, Beta Colony. We bring you onboard, leave a mechanical doppelganger here that people think is you to die, and _you_ live on. And the Masterdiplomat’s past agrees with his future, doesn’t violate any rules, because our doppelganger will be _damn_ convincing!”

Robinton looked at Thorne, a ghost of…something…at being interrupted appearing and vanishing almost too fast to catch.

Thorne said, “You were getting to the part where _she doesn’t have to die_ too _slowly._ Lead with the solution first! It’s not as cruel.”

Merelan bit her lip for a moment, then said to Belle, gently, “It’s okay. Tiroth already told me to be patient.”

“Thank you, Tiroth,” Robinton said over his shoulder to the bronze. “I’m sorry. I _am_ making a mess of it. And I truly didn’t mean to be cruel. I would like for you to come with us. To the future, to be healed. I don’t want you to die here like I remembered. I very much want you to live. But it’s _your_ choice.”

Her hands felt very cold, and she rubbed them together futilely, and a moment later, Robinton encased them in his. His fingers were large and warm, but so thin. All of him was so thin, he really didn’t look all that healthy at all. “Do they not feed you in the future?” she asked inanely, because behind the scenes her mind was churning.

“I was sick too. Possibly of the same thing you have, if it’s something carried in our bloodline. My heart failed, twice. The second time it was replaced with a mechanical heart to keep my blood pumping. There’s a funny little song there, the Harper with a mechanical heart, if I ever find the time to write it!”

Proof that Robinton had composition skills—but that his heart (heh) didn’t lie there. _Petiron_ would have _found_ the time. Robinton got distracted by so many other things. “I assume the Harper Hall doesn’t just leave the post of Composition Master open in the future, for Petiron to reclaim?” she asked with a smile. “No Question Songs for missing composers?”

Robinton pressed his lips together. “Mother—when you go _between_ whens, the before and after have to match up. You can’t go back to change an event. Only to complete something that has already happened. All of my memories say that you died decades ago. That was the reality that has shaped my past. You died, I buried you, I mourned you. Only Captain Thorne arguing that technological trickery might have fooled my younger self completely in ways I didn’t anticipate makes me think that there’s a possibility of what I am convinced happened didn’t really happen. But Petiron—he’s more complicated. After you passed, and I was voted in as Masterharper, he retired to Half-Circle Seahold.”

She blinked, not recognizing the assignment offhand, and searched her brain. “…Nerat?”

“Yes. To be the Hold Harper.”

“To _Nerat?_ Not _Boll_ , where my cousins are…not even Telgar?”

“He’d _never_ go to Telgar, mother. He hates his cousins. And even if he’d tried to ask for a Telgar position, that’s the one posting I _never_ would have approved.”

She set that aside that to probe later. “Why did he go to Nerat? He gave up his Composer post?”

“I did not take his post from him,” Robinton told her quietly. “Or even imply that he should resign. I would have worked with him. Planned to. But he didn’t _want_ me ranking as Masterharper over him. So he resigned. I would have let him have any opening he qualified for—which was most of them. He chose Half-Circle.”

“How did he die?” Captain Thorne asked from the side.

“Old age,” Robinton said. “He stayed at Half-Circle the rest of his life. There, he trained Master Menolly, and she cared for him in his final turns before she came to the Harper Hall. She said before he passed, he became frail, and that his mind deteriorated and wandered.”

Merelan’s stomach twisted. Petiron was not a man to cope well with his mind deserting him.

“Menolly was handling all of his duties as Harper at the end, although the hold did not make me aware of this. They only notified me of his death after he’d passed and had been buried at sea.”

“He died alone,” she said softly, somewhat shocked. She had been dead, and Robinton the Masterharper, and they _still_ hadn’t reconciled? _Never?_

Robinton went very still. “Menolly loved him, and was there with him. He was always kinder to the opposite sex than his own.” A pause. “Menolly would love to meet you.”

“If you were Masterharper, why didn’t she tell you his health was failing? If she was handling his duties?” It was odd to think of Petiron as remarried. He’d always claimed—and to be fair, acted—as if she was the only one for him. But if he outlived her by as long as they claimed…could she really resent another woman finding love with him?

“Menolly was not formally apprenticed at the time. Her parents severely disapproved of women in the Crafts. She was little more than a child herself, and it _never_ would have occurred to her to send me a letter. Too arrogant of her, too forward. I believe Yanus only let her continue on with Petiron’s duties because he felt his hold’s ‘real’ education would come from the sailors. In his mind, Menolly was simply caring for the children all day. ‘Women’s work’, of course. Holder Yanus is not a man known for putting much real faith in a general education. However, Petiron did teach her thoroughly, and when she arrived at the Harper Hall she was able to pass her placement tests with ease, and was made Journeywoman. Petiron was noted in the Records as her Master for her Apprenticeship retroactively.”

Oh. Not a second wife, then. She wasn’t sure whether to feel sad Petiron hadn’t remarried, or embarrassed by the assumption.

Captain Thorne said, “If your husband declined in health and mental acuity over a long period of time, the scheme we’d like to do for you won’t work for him. We can fake a rapid decline, especially if the doppelganger that resembles you seems to be sleeping or comatose and doesn’t have to converse. But to fake a long one, over years? We don’t have the technology for that.”

“Why not?” Merelan asked. Why a miracle for her, but not Petiron?

Belle said, “Poo.”

“Pardon?”

“And speech, we don’t have the databanks to replicate the Pernese accent or culture or idioms. Our cover would be blown instantly. But poo is the bigger issue. Robots—“

“Machines that look like people,” Robinton murmured. “It’s not as alarming as it sounds. Realistic puppets.”

“—require regular maintenance. Robot doppelgangers don’t last long on assignments. The waste system is delicate, and as soon as it goes wrong, the medics get involved and the ruse is up, because the ‘healer’ goes in expecting a colon exam, or at least regular normal-looking deposits in the pot, and finds gears where none should be.”

AIVAS said, “This is true.”

Robinton turned to her.

“Even when I taste small particles of food, it’s better for me to spit it out. Less maintenance. Speaking from experience with this chassis.” She indicated her body. A pause, and she turned to Merelan. “Also, not even galactics have cured old age, or senility once it’s already set in. We know Master Petiron was at Half-Circle for many, many turns. If we are able to infiltrate Half-Circle on the day of his death, and bring him forward with us, he would still pass of age-related complications shortly after, and if his mental capacity was diminished, any move from Half-Circle could be frightening. A sudden change where he is brought into a world he doesn’t know and doesn’t know or understand would be unnecessarily harsh and cruel during his final days.”

“Menolly also has never mentioned anything odd about those days to me,” Robinton said. “And I can’t see how she wouldn’t have asked me—even if she was afraid such questions might sound insane prior to the discovery of Landing, surely she would have said something after we discovered Landing.”

“She’s never asked me about the topic either, publically or privately,” AIVAS said.

“If I may, Harper,” D’ram interjected. “I think you’ve strayed into the weeds again. Mastersinger Merelan—“

That title…

“We’d like to bring you into the future to be healed. It sounds like it’s very possible for you. I have been through this process before, somewhat. I think you should take some time to think it over. Tiroth and I, who have lived through such a transition ourselves, would be happy to talk about our experience of traveling forward _whens_.”

“D’ram’s a good man,” Robinton reassured her. “And Tiroth a good bronze.”

“We’re standing right next to you.”

Robinton leaned back to eye him. “What, should I have whispered it into her ear or something? As if I’m afraid of you hearing me? You were a good Weyrleader at Ista, a good man in the Eighth Pass and the Ninth Pass and I expect any Pass or Interval you decide to visit.” A pause. “And I expect you’ll make a _fantastic_ Weyrdiplomat.” A half-grin. “Which we’ll have to discuss at some point.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m splintering a new Craft Hall from the Harper Hall. We’re still working out the details, Lytol and I. He’s the Lord Diplomat, handles Pern’s small galactic Holdings, mainly embassies such as the one at Beta Colony. I am the Masterdiplomat, handling the Craft side of diplomatic matters. And we need a Weyr representative. A Weyrdiplomat.”

“And you’re asking me.”

Robinton crossed his arms and said coyly, “Would you rather I visit Southern Weyr and ask one of _those_ former Weyrleaders—“

“That’s no sort of leverage on me, Rob. One of _those_ jokers? Pull Tiroth’s wing, it’s got bells on! I could say no all day long and you _still_ wouldn’t go _there_ for aid. You’d probably try to steal F’nor away from F’lar, or get N’ton to lose his own mating flight on purpose so he can frolic out among the stars!”

The look on Robinton’s face became speculative, and for the first time, Merelan felt she was seeing who her son _really_ was as a fully-grown adult, now that he realized the obedient mien he affected for his sire didn’t work on Petiron or much of anyone else. The supplicant she’d seen a few moments before certainly wasn’t it! “F’nor would require Brekke to convince him a bit. And probably require that Benden throw in behind me. I’m not sure F’lar would want to train a new second.”

“Don’t tell me that you intend to keep Benden in the cold forever?” D’ram demanded.

“No, no. It’s not that, it’s—“

“Surely you won’t keep Benden in the cold forever?” a woman’s sweet voice echoed.

And the nature of the conversation changed abruptly and completely.

Merelan watched with interest as both Robinton and D’ram looked like a splash of cold water had suddenly gone down the back of their tunics. The flashes of panic were unmistakable, even on Robinton who swiftly hid the reaction. And from behind Tiroth’s tail stepped out a diminutive little woman, Ruathan blood clear as day in her features. Like D’ram, she wore wherhides uncharacteristically well-used, and Merelan suddenly realized the scars on Tiroth’s hide were from _thread_.

And for a moment that one little detail distracted her from the question of death, and the appearance of this stranger. She _wasn’t_ being fooled, not about thread returning in the future—nobody sane would scarify their dragon on _purpose_. And an insane rider would drive his dragon _between._ These _were_ people from the “Ninth Pass”, and the future. She knew herself well enough that her dreams weren’t intricate enough to include such small details. This really _wasn’t_ some sort of dream-sickness, or the result of too much wine or fellis.

It was real. The chance being offered to her, to be healed and not die, was _real_.

“Weyrwoman,” Robinton said softly, and abruptly rose to his full height, and gave her a bow that managed to be both respectful and gently mocking. Gallantly, he also stepped forward to the small woman, and lifted her hand to his mouth to kiss. To Merelan’s eyes, the dance of gallantry between them was well-practiced. “Those were D’ram’s words, not mine. I was returning home with all the news, and, er—“ Robinton hesitated.

“He ended up here,” D’ram said. “Needing our help to get back to the right _when_. Gave us an _extremely_ vague message from very far away one day, but it got us here so I suppose it worked out well for him.”

Robinton gave them a rueful smile. “As we say in the Hall, I’ve been frantically _improvising_ recently.”

Lessa studied him silently for a moment, then said to D’ram, “He called you from afar, he said?”

D’ram nodded.

She cocked her head at Robinton. “But you called Ramoth and I, as well.”

“…I did?” Robinton said.

She studied him some more. “You don’t recall? Ramoth—did we get the wrong _when?”_

AIVAS said, her voice oddly loud, “The echos. During calibration of the Ariel. And the first jump.”

Robinton’s eyes widened, and he said to the queenrider, “Were you swimming? When you heard me?”

“We were. Two hours ago.”

“A few sevendays longer than that for me,” Robinton said. “It seems you and I are a little desynched, but still _mostly_ from the same _when_ …”

“Harper,” the petite Weyrwoman said. “We went to Cove and you weren’t there. We couldn’t find you anywhere on Pern. Nor Lord Lytol. Brekke is gone. Master Menolly is gone too, nowhere to be fond, not a wingtip of that noisy faire of hers about, but Masterharper Sebell is still at the Harper Hall. He deflects when I ask him questions, and I find his charm grating _._ Are all those missing people here, in this _when_? Ramoth cannot find them.”

“They are not in this when.”

“Then _where?_ What _exactly_ are you up to?”

Turning to the golden-eyed woman next to him, Robinton said, “AIVAS?”

Lessa frowned.

“Weyrwoman,” the woman called AIVAS said, and her voice was suddenly a baritone that was almost too perfect in its cadences to Merelan’s ear. There was no evidence that Robinton or someone else was throwing his voice. “Perhaps I should explain what sort of calculations I’ve been doing recently.”

The Weyrwoman’s intense blue eyes narrowed at AIVAS, and she said. “’AIVAS’? I see. And yes, I would appreciate that. But AIVAS won’t shield you, Harper. I want a _full_ accounting of what _you’ve_ been up to, AIVAS or no AIVAS!”

Robinton gave a little bow, then unexpectedly he turned back to Merelan. “I’m being held accountable for my misdeeds, mother. So don’t let that factor into your decision whether to stay or go,” and he winked. “I assure you, the Weyrwoman is harder on me than you ever were!”

The queenrider said, startled, “This is your mother?”

And Merelan suddenly found herself on the end of an intense blue stare herself. Automatically, she felt her face soften into a smile that she knew disarmed the unsuspecting, and she said, “I seem to be put into the position where a series of…mistakes?” she glanced at Robinton, “Have conspired to give me the opportunity to decide the time and place of my own death.”

_That_ softly-delivered but dramatic proclamation took the self-righteous wind out of the Weyrwoman’s sails, and she glanced with sudden deep apology in Robinton’s direction for having intruded in something so private. “I see.”

Robinton opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Captain Thorne said, “I find the idea of leaving people to die because fate demands it idiotic, and pushed the issue. We’ve found a way to make the past and present agree as the Masterdiplomat says it should, so it won’t violate any of your time-travel rules. Mastersinger Merelan simply has to make her choice.”

“D’ram,” Merelan said, rising, truly overwhelmed at this point, but unwilling to make a scene. “I think I might take up your offer of a chat, while my son…’answers for his misdeeds’. Captain Thorne, would you like to accompany us? I have some questions for you too, about the subterfuge and what you think your Healers can do for me.”

Belle Thorne hesitated.

“Please, go answer my mother’s questions, Captain Thorne,” Robinton said, reinforcing a suggestion that wasn’t really a suggestion. “You are the only one who can answer many of them.”

Caught between the two Harpers, Belle’s eyes flicked to the small queenrider as if she wanted to be in on _that_ conversation, then nodded to Merelan and followed her to another empty Gather table at the outskirts of the Gather. D’ram offered Merelan his arm, and she gladly took it, not sure her head was spinning solely because of the night’s wild events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bel has the hots for talented musicians, OKAY???


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

Robinton was not entirely sure he should be relieved or frustrated at Lessa’s abrupt introduction into events—he hadn’t practiced in his head what he would say at all, which left him more flat-footed than he’d normally be.

(As if he hadn’t been disastrously off-footed with his mother. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so cack-handed with something! If only they’d been in private…)

But perhaps being a bit out of time might…give him more time? He wasn’t sure.

As he waited for the others—particularly Captain Thorne—to move out of earshot, he said, “I don’t see Ramoth.” Tiroth was still right here (and he wished Tiroth had _warned_ them…not the that the bronze would have if Ramoth had instructed otherwise), but Ramoth’s huge, distinctive form was nowhere to be seen.

“This is only one queen in this _when_ ,” Lessa said. “And while Ramoth certainly resembles her dam, I do not at all resemble Jora. Nor was Jora known for visiting gathers at Fort.” A pause. “Ramoth’s sunning herself in Fort Weyr. And found a machine that shouldn’t be there.”

“That is the Eridani jump ship AIVAS had hidden away on the Yokohama,” Robinton said.

“That explains why Ramoth says it smells like burning metal and space. Sit, I’m not going to claw you apart like a hungry feline.”

Robinton was not so sure of that, but sat anyhow. “Lady Lessa. I did not intend to leave you in the cold. But I lost so much time in my convalescence while AIVAS worked to repair my heart, that I felt it best to act first, and ask forgiveness later. Something has happened in the Rukbat solar system that could have possibly put us all in grave danger, and still may. AIVAS?”

AIVAS sat next to Robinton, and gave Lessa the same explanation that Robinton himself had gotten, more than a half-turn ago. The wormhole readings, the necessity for AIVAS to finally, after more than two millennia, select a jump pilot host and fulfill his original purpose as a stellar and wormhole navigation AI. How Robinton’s heart, already damaged by the earlier heart attack, began to fail again, and how AIVAS had to repair that first, sapping his and Robinton’s resources, before completing the complex neural enhancement that would let Robinton link to the jump ship. All of this took what would typically be a two or three week convalescence and turned it into a half-turn coma.

Robinton did not know if it was this _when_ , or the facts themselves, or if Lessa was having an unexpectedly good day, or if Robinton had seriously mischaracterized her potential for support, but Lessa listened quietly, head occasionally cocking to some internal thought or comment from Ramoth, and he did not have to weather any storm or outburst from her.

Together, Robinton and AIVAS also decided to rip off the bandage and expose the true nature of the bond between them, the real obstacle that Robinton felt might be an awful shock for her.

“We were able to acquire this robot on Beta Colony,” AIVAS began, gesturing at himself. “But this is not my body any more than the speakers at Landing are. The physical part of me that _was_ once encased in a computer at Landing is now an inseparable part of Robinton. _This_ frame is a useful puppet, to make it easier for people to talk with and interact with me. I can also touch and feel and see things I otherwise wouldn’t be able to interact with without interrupting Robinton. But I am part of Robinton now. This chassis could be destroyed, and it would not remove me. But if he dies, I die. If someone tries to surgically remove me—we die. I doubt galactic technology could successfully remove me without killing him, and I know Pernese technology is not yet advanced enough to even try. Therefore, _I_ am no longer at Landing, although I can utilize the power of the computers there and speak through the speakers when Robinton is physically present or I otherwise have a remote link to the facility.”

Lessa stayed very quiet. So quiet, for so long, that Robinton began to fear again that an anger worse than any he’d seen before was brewing.

Then she turned to AIVAS and said, “If you hadn’t done this, would Robinton still be with us?”

AIVAS said, “The second heart attack that he had after I spoke to him about the wormhole was likely stress-induced, at least in part. If I had not brought the matter up, he might not have had a heart attack that day. However, his heart was already damaged from before, severely, which I discovered when I had to act in haste to save him. My specialty isn’t human biology, but with the information I had on hand then, and now, I believe he would not have lived very much longer without a full heart transplant, something Master Oldive’s Healers, as ardently as they are studying, would not be able to supply with the technology available on this planet. I estimate he might have had a half a turn, at most, if he were lucky.”

“So he’s here today—talking personal _whens_ , that is—because you made him into a ‘jump pilot’. You Impressed him. And fixed his heart.”

“Yes.”

Robinton found that he didn’t particularly like to contemplate his own death, and glanced over in the direction his mother went. He would need to apologize to her. She deserved much better from him than what she’d gotten today.

Lessa was silent for a while, her head cocked as she likely conferred with Ramoth. Then she said, “I am…uneasy…with this sort of technology. But if it keeps our Harper here with us, perhaps it is worth it.”

“Only perhaps?” Robinton teased.

“Tell me why you’re in this _when_ , and _then_ I’ll decide!”

#

Leave behind Petiron.

Leave behind _this_ Fort and _this_ Harper Hall.

Leave behind Robinton. (She knew both Robintons were Robinton, but she didn’t know _this_ Robinton.)

Leave behind this world, where the words “Ninth Pass” were uttered most frequently by the odd woodsy folks who never quite absorbed Harper teachings in the way one might expect them to.

In exchange, have her lungs healed so they took proper, full breaths of air.

Have her heart healed so it didn’t race when there was no reason to be racing.

Step into a new life.

Thorne explained some of the things the Healer would do, to save her. She only understood a fraction of it. Then Belle came up with a skeleton of how the “mission” to leave a decoy might go, her expression becoming intent and excited. D’ram frequently corrected her on details of how best to go about faking a death in the Harper Hall, and she took the corrections well, creating and revising a plan over and over again, trotting it out in front of Merelan in hopes of approval.

And Merelan played a part.

She didn’t know _why_ she did it, but she did. She kept her face serene, her answers vague. She projected ambivalent thoughtfulness, and _acted_ like there was a possibility she might say no, and stay in this when to die.

But she’d decided. She didn’t want to die. Every iota of her being that had whispered once or twice on a particularly bad day that it wasn’t _fair_ screamed at her that this was her _chance_. And yes, it was terrifying! But it was a chance to _live_ , and she wanted _more life_.

A part of her wrung its hands, thinking herself greedy, that everything and everyone had their time and place to die, why should she defy the death that would eventually come to take her anyway? And she looked at it with the withering scorn of logic, and eventually it admitted that she knew it was lying, that someone her age was genuinely rather young to cease to be. She hadn’t somehow lived more in her forty scant turns that some lived in a lifetime. She had only lived half a lifetime, no more or less ardently than anyone else, and didn’t want to be _cheateed_.

And although she could still feel the fog surrounding her thoughts, and her breath still came shallow and unreasonably fast, at the same time she still felt a clarity of purpose and renewal that she hadn’t felt since she was a very young girl.

Still, she played a part.

And eventually she realized it was because she was preparing for the _real_ part she had to play: faking her own death so realistically even her husband and son believed it.

#

AIVAS paced around as he told Lessa about his theories on why the wormhole had brought them to this when, and the tests he was considering in order to gather more data so he could produce some theories on how to get the Ariel back to the correct when.

Robinton knew this was one of his own mannerisms, but why AIVAS had picked it up and was employing it here, he didn’t quite know. Perhaps it was the curious looks Lessa kept giving AIVAS, probably noting how much he looked like F’lar and F’nor.

Then Lessa said, “AIVAS. If you need to go _between_ to gather data, or _between_ whens, you can simply ask.”

The androgynoid stopped its pacing. “I wouldn’t presume—“

“I’m sure Robinton will break you of that, if the stakes are high enough,” she said with a quirk of her mouth. “He will also teach you to beg, most prettily. And come away from the deal with most of what you want!” Then she said, “Are you a man or a woman?”

A pause. Then, “Technically, I am neither. But this chassis was designed to resemble the characteristics of a Betan hermaphrodite.”

“It’s an unsettling choice, if I may be frank. Some already only tolerate you because you’re useful, and that helps them overlook everything that they’re afraid of when it comes to Landing and our Ancients. If you become too strange, even your usefulness might not save your reputation.”

“Betans are our closest neighbors, as far as we know. Pern will need to learn how to be polite to them.”

“So you chose your form based on what people from _another_ planet will think?” her tone was arch.

A mental query from AIVAS. Robinton shrugged, and gave assent.

“I chose my form to be pleasing to Robinton,” AIVAS said. “He will see this chassis most frequently.”

Now her eyes landed on Robinton, then returned to AIVAS, and asked the question Robinton was dreading. “Why do you look like F’lar? And F’nor?”

“I look like a combination of F’lon, Kasia, and Menolly,” AIVAS replied. “Three people who were, and in the case of Menolly, _are_ , dear to Robinton.”

“Shall we, too, judge you by the shape of your nose, dear Lessa?” Robinton interjected.

“The shape of my nose doesn’t make people mistake my sex.”

“How lucky for you,” Robinton said. “Menolly’s had more than her fair share of being accused of being too manly. The nose on her face has sometimes been suggested as being a part of it.”

Abashment appeared on the slight woman’s expression, and she turned away. But still she spoke, “Why F’lon? And who is Kasia?”

“Kasia was my wife,” Robinton said. “She died a very long—“ he hesitated. “Actually, she died less than a turn ago in this when.” His eyes unfocused, and he thought about those last memories of her. She’d died beside him. He’d woken up with her dead body in his arms, and it’d felt nothing like AIVAS or any substitution. And he had _felt_ , probably with the same part of him that woke up with exposure to fast-penta, that she’d been _gone_.

He shivered and gave up the idea of diving another turn into the past to save her. His memories didn’t have the wiggle room that his memories with his mother did. You didn’t hold a corpse in your arms for hours without _knowing_ it was a corpse. “She died a very long time ago,” he repeated after his hesitation.

AIVAS touched his shoulder.

“And F’lon was…he was F’lon, Weyrwoman. He died before you were born. F’lar and F’nor look like AIVAS because AIVAS resembles their sire, that’s all.”

Lessa visibly decided not to push the matter. Although Robinton suspected she had a glimmer of understanding. “Is Captain Thorne a hermaphrodite too?”

“They are,” Robinton said.

“Well. Perhaps AIVAS is right after all.” She paused. “I’ve asked Ramoth to come. I imagine if we leave quickly from this gather, we won’t be too-remarked-on. We will go _between_ as many times as you need, AIVAS. I don’t want Captain Thorne’s Ariel to stay in this when if we can resolve that.”

Robinton glanced in the direction of his mother, Thorne, and D’ram.

“Even if we _did_ leave them behind—and I admit I am tempted—D’ram and Tiroth will be there to fix things.”

Above them, the giant, golden form of Ramoth emerged from _between_.

“Very well, Weyrwoman,” Robinton said at last. “AIVAS and I appreciate the help.”

#

“I’ve never seen a queen so big,” Merelan said, interrupting Thorne’s newest iteration of her plan.

D’ram turned to look. “I believe Ramoth is the biggest queen ever hatched.” Then he snorted out a laugh. “Tiroth. You’re getting too old for such thoughts!”

Merelan glanced at the rider, then watched as Robinton and AIVAS mounted.

Captain Thorne, too, stopped talking and stared as if she’d never seen anyone mount a dragon before.

“Are they coming back?” Thorne asked urgently.

D’ram said, “Yes. Tiroth says AIVAS has to do some tests, which may help get your ship home. Ramoth and Lessa are assisting him.”

Although Merelan’s head told her that Thorne’s obvious fear was baseless, because Robinton was not one to abandon people, she still felt her own version of it, and abruptly said, before Ramoth leapt into the sky and went _between_ , “I will come to the future with you. I’ve decided.”

“Oh, good,” Thorne said in evident relief. “Usually people are more amenable to being rescued from certain death.”

“Do you rescue a lot of people from certain death?” she asked.

“Oh, more than my fair share.”

“Are the stars beyond Pern that dangerous?”

“It depends which star you’re visiting,” Thorne said. “To be fair, I’m a Captain in a mercenary outfit. People pay us to fight for them, or to defend them. I have more opportunities than most to be involved in matters of life and death.”

Merelan studied the young woman for a moment, wondering what drew her to such a craft, then realized she would likely have more time to figure that mystery out than she had left…here.

She had a death to plan, didn’t she? Thorne provided the props. D’ram had some idea of the subterfuge, but wasn’t from the Harper Hall and while the broad strokes were correct, the finer details were not since the Hall was not the same thing as a Weyr. She had to produce the final performance herself.

Taking ahold of each of their arms, she turned away from the Gather, and towards Fort Hold, the Healer Hall, and the Harper Hall, her eyes scanning the buildings and windows in the colorful shades of an autumn dusk, formulating plans to say good-bye.

#

_Eight._

_Seven._

_Six._

_Five._

_Four._

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

Light, as they burst from _between_. A simple jump in this _when_ , Robinton noted, for the transit _between_ was the normal length. Technically. AIVAS had had him switch into the accelerated perceptual-time right before Ramoth had jumped, so it felt much longer.

_How’s it going?_ Robinton asked, as he canceled the accelerated time-sense so the things around him wouldn’t move in strange slow-motion.

Hints of emotion—the one that passed for excitement, but was _I have data I needed, and now can focus on other tasks in my queue._

_Good,_ Robinton said. _Shall we ask them to take us to another when?_

_Yes,_ AIVAS said. And, “Weyrwoman, could we temporarily return to your when? I am ready to gather data.”

Ramoth tilted her wings to glide in a wide arc through the sky, and Lessa’s helmeted head nodded somewhere below Robinton’s chin in front of him, and Robinton quickly triggered the altered time-sense again as they passed back into _between_ towards a more modern when.

#

Before the older-Robinton and the great queen Ramoth returned, it was decided that in light of her symptoms—they had noticed that she was always out of breath—that D’ram would take them to the Ariel tonight, using coordinates taken from Zair’s mind when the bronze dragon summoned the bronze firelizard away from Robinton’s side.

“Wait,” Thorne said. “I need to prepare my ship. Nobody has told them a dragon is going to appear in the cargo bay—even if that’s what the Diplomat may have been planning all along.” She took a device out of her clothing, and stared at it intently, and moved her thumbs over it, and stared again. A few minutes later, she said, “Can I take a photograph of your dragon, Weyrdiplomat?”

“Yes,” D’ram said, and moved over to sit on Tiroth’s arm.

“Do you know what a photograph is?”

“Yes,” D’ram said, testily this time. “I’m not from this when, remember. We’ve had technology for a few turns now, at Landing.”

Thorne shrugged, pointed the device at the man and his dragon, then fiddled with it some more. Then she announced, “Now we can go.” A pause. “Is there anything I need to do or know before we teleport?”

“You’ve a Harper next to you,” D’ram said. “Ask her to teach you the songs about _between_.”

Merelan didn’t have breath to do that as they mounted the bronze dragon, but once astride, she sang one of the shorter, more to-the-point verses, then said, “It’s cold, and black, and you can’t feel anything. But the dragon will carry us out the other side. You just need to trust Tiroth.”

A voice like D’ram’s said, _We won’t die_ between _. I’ve done this many times._

Captain Thorne, seated behind Merelan, jumped like a scalded feline. “What was _that?_ ”

“Did you hear Tiroth, too?” Merelan asked.

“I don’t have a headset on!”

“It’s called telepathy, Betan,” D’ram called over his shoulder to them. “I told Tiroth he’d only scare you, but he wanted to try to make you less afraid of _between_ anyhow. Idiot,” he said fondly patting the dragon on the neck. “Pernese born-and-bred jump when a dragon talks to them—why did you think a Betan would be any better?” He chuckled to himself. Then he twisted in his seat, eyeballed their straps, reached back to tug on a few of them, then muttered, “Ah, well, Tiroth’ll catch you if you fall.”

Merelan suspected this was a joke at the Betan’s expense, riders were rarely cavalier about the safety of their passengers. And the Betan’s hands did tighten a bit about her waist.

Then Tiroth crouched down on his haunches, and leapt into the air, his great bronze wings catching the wind easily.

And they went _between_ to the Ariel.

#

“STOP! STOP! DAMN YOU, put the WEAPONS AWAY you smooth-brained mouth-breathers!” Belle Thorne roared from behind Merelan in a voice that was no longer on the lower side of feminine but a parade-ground tenor bellow.

Tiroth, beneath them, let out a warning bellow of his own as they landed on the floor of some great metal cavern. People in strange clothing held things uncertainly in their hands. And Tiroth crouched where he’d landed, lest he had to fling them into the air once more to go back _between_.

“Captain,” D’ram warned from the front. “Get your people under control now!”

A scramble from behind Merelan, the sounds of buckles being undone, and Thorne was sliding haphazardly down the bronze’s side. It wasn’t the most graceful dismount Merelan had ever seen, but Thorne landed on their feet and began shouting and waving angrily until the things that were presumably weapons went back in holsters.

D’ram didn’t move to unbuckle himself, so Merelan didn’t either, instead taking careful breaths as she alternated between watching the set of D’ram’s shoulders for clues, and the activity around Thorne.

Eventually, irritation in every line of their body, Thorne approached them and craned their neck up to D’ram. “I apologize, Weyrdiplomat. I gave orders, sent an image, asked several times if I was understood. But nobody ever expects dragons to appear out of nowhere. I think they were expecting something the size of the Diplomat’s firelizard Zair.”

“Are we safe to dismount? Will they leave Tiroth alone? I warn you, Captain, if Tiroth is hurt you and your people will _never_ go home again. We are your only way off of this planet, and out of this when.”

“I fully understand. It won’t happen again.”

D’ram studied the man (Merelan was having a difficult time seeing Thorne as a “she” now), and eventually he relaxed, and began to unbuckle himself.

Merelan half-expected some sort of delay in anything happening, but she had just barely set foot on the ground herself when Captain Thorne approached her with a medic, a Healer, at their side. The medic was an older woman who an extremely calm bedside manner, and began immediately asking her about her symptoms as she led Merelan away across the “cargo bay”. Captain Thorne and D’ram trailed behind.

When they were almost through a door on the other end, there was another shout, and Merelan turned to see another dragon, Ramoth, flying down to land.

“Wait!” Robinton hollered, and slid down Ramoth’s shoulder to the ground in a practiced way that made him seem half-dragonrider himself. AIVAS followed more sedately as Robinton burst into a run towards them. “What are you doing? What’s going on?”

“My ship’s medics are going to examine Merelan, and get started on whatever can be done immediately to stabilize her and help her breathe more easily,” Thorne said.

“Without me?” Robinton protested.

_“You’re_ the one who flew off,” Thorne pointed out.

For an instant, Robinton looked very much like his sire when Petiron was about to slide into a black mood on her behalf, but he mastered it, turned to Merelan, and said meekly, “Well, I’m here now. Do you want me with you, mother?”

Robinton was still so familiar and yet so different, and she wasn’t entirely sure having him at her side would conquer the feeling of being surrounded by strangers, but she also wasn’t cruel enough to say that to her son regardless what age he was, so she simply said, “Yes.”

#

Robinton stayed with his mother as the medics immediately put her behind an imaging device, holding her hand in his whenever possible. After a few minutes of the machine whirring and humming, the medic proclaimed she already had mild pneumonia with fluid in her lungs that could be drained. They wanted to remove the liquid from her lungs as quickly as possible, and do a “biopsy” on some of the damaged lung tissue they saw, and see if there was a chance that standard antibiotics would help at all if any Pernese-native organisms were the culprit. She also had a weakness in her heart, a mild congenital defect that was starting to catch up with her. They could do surgery on it here; compared to the wounds the medics on the Arial usually treated, patching up a heart was a cakewalk.

_You had a milder form of that,_ AIVAS silently remarked. _But hers has now been caught earlier in her life, and less of the surrounding tissue is damaged. They may be able to repair it without the total heart transplant that you would have required._

He continued to hold her hand as sedatives went into effect and she drifted off, and then Robinton found himself in another room staring at a video feed of the surgery on a com that someone had handed to him.

Lessa and D’ram drifted over to sit on either side of him. Robinton shut off the com—watching Healers mess around with a living body the same way a Smith wrenched around a machine had always discomforted him, and he thought his distress would harm his mother more once they let him back into the room to sit with her—and rubbed at his face tiredly. Today had not at all gone how he had planned.

Well, _nothing_ had gone as he’d planned since he’d come through that last wormhole.

Lessa said, “Did you get what you needed from Ramoth and me?”

They had gone _between_ to a few spots in this when, and then had briefly returned to a more modern when. Not the exact _when_ he should be in—he was a few seven-days ahead of Lessa—but it’d been enough to let AIVAS do some things.

“I believe so,” Robinton said. “AIVAS is doing his calculations, and since we’re now inside the Yokohama—or rather, we’re inside the Ariel which is here—he’s able to use the instrumentation to study the point where we exited from the wormhole. If it opens again, we will have to move quickly and go through it. I would say you can stay and join us for the transit…but in case another mistake happens, I’m not sure depriving Benden Weyr of its Weyrwoman would be wise.”

D’ram said, “I’ll come along.”

Robinton cocked his head at D’ram.

“If I’m the Weyrdiplomat, I better start learning how to handle myself in space,” D’ram said sensibly. “Tiroth, too.”

Lessa sighed. “I’d love to come along, but you’re probably right. I’m not retired like you two are, and don’t plan to be until the Pass ends and thread is defeated forever. Otherwise I’d join in on your mischief!” A pause. “Is everything wrapped up with your mother already?”

“No,” Robinton said. “But, with either of you willing, we can plan and execute the subterfuge from any _when_ as long as one of you is willing to help out.”

“I like her,” D’ram said. “It would be a shame to waste her in this when, especially if she’s to die soon. We’ll take you wherever, whenever.”

“Thank you, D’ram.”

#

Several days passed, most of them with his mother sedated and healing from several minor surgeries. An antibiotic normally used on bugs acquired from Tau Ceti proved useful on the native Pernese bacterium that had infested his mother’s lungs, and the medics reported that they could probably get her ninety percent of the way to full health, and some stays in any modern hospital would make her as healthy as anyone else.

Captain Thorne, to Robinton’s surprised, actually _apologized_ that they couldn’t get her to one-hundred percent here. The Ariel’s facilities prioritized the stabilization of major wounds and injuries. Growing fresh tissue to replace scarred portions of delicate lungs or hearts required a long-term setup the Ariel didn’t have. But with the pneumonia that had persisted for years beaten into submission and then eradicated completely, Merelan would soon be healthier than Robinton had ever known her to be.

Robinton reassured Captain Thorne that it had done all it could for Merelan—and more—and some later visit to a galactic hospital to finish off the rest would not be any sort of problem.

While his mother slept, Robinton took a brief foray back to Fort Weyr with Lessa and D’ram to bring the jump ship Mastersinger Merelan off planet again and back into its safe dock within the Yokohama. On the flight from the surface of Pern to space, Lessa and D’ram rode in the cockpit with him and AIVAS, while Ramoth and Tiroth awaited them on the Ariel.

They made good use of the trip, as it was perhaps the first time they could speak freely away from Dendarii ears and cameras, and Robinton explained everything he’d encountered so far (well, _almost_ everything…he hesitated when it came to the effects of fast-penta, nor did he tell them about his personal matters).

“So you see,” Robinton said as he disconnected himself from the pilot contacts on the seat once they were docked in the Yokohama and stood up to stretch before leaning on his forearms on the back of his seat. “I need people. People to staff the embassies we need to establish. Stewards for Lytol, or even minor Diplomat-Holders, to manage the daily holding-related activities of embassies while he is elsewhere. We need Crafters for me, people who can negotiate and forge relationships with galactics. Harpers are well-suited for that, but I can’t strip Sebell of _all_ his people, and I think it’d be wiser if I’m able to get an assortment of Journeymen and Masters from other Crafts who want to cross-Craft into my Diplomat Hall. Finally—and AIVAS and I believe this is critical—we need to establish a corps of jump pilots. Ones able to use the galactic methods of wormhole navigation, and ones who are candidates for this,” and Robinton waved his hand at the back of his neck. “I understand why AIVAS chose me. But it also makes me a failure point for _everything_ , especially if we don’t get—make, _train_ —more jump pilots as soon as possible. And we also need pilots for a jump drive that can make hops _between_ —or perhaps, like my mistake demonstrated, _whens_ —which requires people with the right mentasynth adaptations.”

Lessa said, “Dragonriders are mentasynth-enhanced. You’re telling me you would also need to go on Search for candidates?”

Robinton gave her an embarrassed smile. “I suppose. Yes. However, we think it’s critical that galactics, and people in general even here on Pern, are _not_ aware of _that_ requirement for Eridani-style jump pilots. I’d hate for our people to become targets for kidnapping. So yes, but quietly. AIVAS thinks it’s possible that people being brought into the regular jump pilot program I’m envisioning could be siphoned into the Eridani-style jump pilot program, as mentasynth enhancements are well-established across most of Pern’s population.”

Lessa said, “There are always people who were Searched, but who don’t Impress. There’s no reason they couldn’t be encouraged to look into your Craft.”

Robinton hadn’t even thought of that, but nodded. “I would appreciate that, very much.”

Lessa asked, “Can AIVAS Impress more than one person?”

“I was about to ask that,” D’ram said.

It was gratifying that both riders had so easily accepted Robinton as having “Impressed” AIVAS, but still felt decidedly sacrilegious. Blasphemous.

Robinton put those feelings aside. “No. I currently have Menolly elsewhere in the Nexus with Captain Thorne’s Master pursuing a lead for more AIs like AIVAS. The whole idea of a _between_ ship of any sort will be dead in the water if we can’t figure out how to get more navigation AIs. All of that research that AIVAS is doing hinges on Eridani knowledge, not galactic. Retooling galactic-style technology would take decades or longer, time we don’t have, with no guarantee it’s even possible to do what we hope without AI assistance.”

D’ram, sitting back in his chair and looking at AIVAS with a frown, said, “If Eridani techniques made firelizards and dragons, and _they_ just rise and fly whenever more of them are needed and lay eggs on the Hatching Grounds, and that ‘renewable airforce’ was always part of their design from the start, can’t…I don’t know… _you_ do the same? Isn’t that the point of you being both male and female?”

AIVAS had one of his pauses, which stretched out longer and longer, to the point that Robinton wondered if AIVAS was intentionally making things feel awkward. Then he said, “This chassis is a doll, not my body. It’s a very realistic, detailed doll, but it can’t make more AIs any more than a toybox will spontaneously begin creating more toys just because someone put a doll that _looks_ male and a doll that _looks_ female into it overnight.”

Robinton said, before D’ram could ask more awkward questions, “I’m sure if AIVAS decides he needs a partner to assist him in any reproductive tasks, he will ask you directly, D’ram. Until then, perhaps we can move onto another topic.”

D’ram, weyrish to the bone and difficult to fluster, turned red. “Apologies.”

Lessa said, “Why are you choosing to represent Hold, Craft, and Weyr like this in your new Crafthall? It’s an unusual departure from Tradition.”

“It is, but it isn’t. I fear that if I established this organization as a Crafthall only, it would be treated as a Crafthall. Autonomous.”

“That’s bad?”

Robinton said, “That’s not bad, when one’s entire universe is Pern. But as I’ve said before, there are dangerous peoples in the Nexus. The sort of people with the types of wars and conflicts which drove Emily Boll and Paul Benden all the way out here to try to create a place that didn’t have any of that…until this wormhole made us less distant and out-of-the-way than before. Do you know how Fax came to power? D’ram missed it, so it’s a story to him. You lived through it—but you were a child, and I don’t know how much of the politics you remember from that time.”

Lessa stayed mute.

Robinton said, “I spent my early days in High Reaches as Journeyman, and knew Fax, and the sort of people who flocked to him. And over and over again, as his power grew, it was the same story. I tried to warn others that he was dangerous, that he spoke about tradition _this_ and tradition _that_ right up until the moment that it was useful for him to break tradition, and _then_ he didn’t care one whit for it and did as he pleased, regardless of who he harmed. I went from Lord to Lord, trying to convince them to protect themselves. But nobody like Fax was known to history, so they didn’t quite believe he’d done what he’d done. Surely it was overblown! A Harper being dramatic! And the areas he conquered were unstable anyway, poorly managed—wasn’t it nice to have a ‘strong’ leader in those places? 

“Some individuals listened to me—Lord Groghe did. Many did not, because the holds were _autonomous_ , and it was not their ‘right’ to interfere in other people’s problems, regardless how bad those problems were. Fax cut the swathe he did because our culture respects the autonomy of the Holds, Halls, and Weyrs, and completely _failed_ to unite against him. In fact, if the alternative hadn’t been certain death, they wouldn’t even have united under you and F’lar when thread began to fall. Even then, I remember when Benden riders stole their waives and took them away a'dragonback as hostages to _force_ them to behave!” Robinton studied her. “If galactics turn their eyes on us, like Fax did on every Hold around him, how many deaths will it take to unite our planet against them?”

Lessa shook her head. “I wish you weren’t right.”

“So do I. If I create a Diplomat Craft, which mimics the structure of Hold, Hall, and Weyr within itself, and mainly keeps its focus on relationships outside of Pern, and stays neutral when it comes to politics between the autonomous entities of Pern itself, or even acts as a neutral third party to moderate disputes between them, I think it will be easier and more natural for the autonomous Lords and Masters and leaders of the Weyrs to unite behind that organization in times of need if and when outside dangers manifest. If we unite, enemies can’t simply divide us and carve us up piece by piece, like Fax did. If this Diplomat organization mostly looks outward, towards the Nexus, the Holders shouldn’t feel as threatened by it as they would if one of their own began to raise the alarm, as I did during the rise of Fax. And with Crafts and Weyrs represented, in addition to the Holds, nobody should feel slighted in their needs.”

“I understand where you’re coming from, Robinton,” D’ram said. “And I see how a Lord Diplomat would be needed to manage any holds we have elsewhere. Perhaps if we ever settle our moons, the Lord Diplomat would Hold there too. And the Craft aspect is obvious, certainly your specialty. But aside from making sure the Weyrs are represented—what would you see the Weyrs doing in space? We’ve shifted the course of the Red Star, and there’s plans to seed the Oort cloud with a virus to kill the thread spoor that is out there. We’re well on our way to eradicating thread. But you haven’t mentioned that the Nexus has a thread problem of its own. So. What would you have _us_ do out there?”

Robinton hesitated. “Obviously, I am not of the Weyr. These are _ideas_ I’ve had, and they could be wildly off-base, given I’m not a dragonrider. Which is why I want to recruit you, D’ram, so you can tell me when I’m off my rocker. But the Weyrs are as close to a military as Pern has. The dragon’s ability to go _between_ in space and time gives Pern its only defensive—or offensive—advantage. We are out-gunned, out-manned, behind in technology, behind in wealth, behind in every possible metric you could think of when it comes to defending ourselves from those peoples out there who might want to do us harm. The dragon’s ability to appear and vanish at a location without having to directly transverse the space in between is an ability nobody else in the Nexus has. So my thought was that dragonriders might, once again, be Pern’s defense. 

“As both of you know, I am not at all a proponent for war, or swordplay, or any of that. I _loathe_ violence, D’ram. It's a bastion of barbarism! But there are sometimes people who _refuse_ to come to the negotiation table unless they are scared enough. People who refuse to reason, who must be goaded or prodded by other methods. I can't be so idealistic as to ignore that, as much as I desperately wish they would behave otherwise.

“F’lar and Lessa here have never once harmed the people of Pern. But they _have_ scared them, the Lord Holders specifically, when fear of dragons and dragonriders and the Weyr was the only motivation to get those Holders moving to save their own skins. 

“Dragons—and not just dragons…mentasynth abilities, telepathy, ships that go _between_ in time and space, even AIs like AIVAS who has bonded to me in a partnership, are all things that may make the war-like peoples of the Nexus _hesitate_ before tangling with us us. Hesitate long enough that someone like me can get in there and _talk_ to them.

“I would like the Weyrs, and the Weyr branch of this new organization, to handle the movement of Pernese ships through the Nexus, to handle logistics of transporting people places, and to research further into the psionic abilities of man and dragon alike. Even though I am the first Eridani-style jump pilot we have, I think that subsequent ones, if we are able to achieve our plans of a _between_ ship, would fall under the Weyrdiplomat’s purview. At some point, if any of this is a success at all, I will be doing more negotiating with the leaders of galactic worlds than wormhole-navigating, and at that point the pragmatic usefulness of my jump ship implant will be lost. It will be a useless hunk of metal in my head. So I do not believe it is wise to merge the Diplomatic side of the Craft with the travel or logistics side too thoroughly. They should be separate arms of the same organization. And your expert familiarity with mobilizing a Weyr to fly in defense of Pern not in just one Pass but two would be invaluable in mobilizing spaceships and jump pilots and dragonriders and dragons to mobilize in defense of Pern.”

D’ram plucked at his lower lip, and stared at Robinton, thinking.

Lessa said, “So you’d turn the Weyrs into a military?”

Robinton said, “That would not be my intent. Did you know that Beta Colony has, in comparison to worlds with the same influence in the Nexus, a small military? They do have a large Astronomical Survey, however—a fleet of ships dedicated to exploring new worlds in the Nexus. When they do go to war, their Survey gets pulled into it. But most of the time they simply go about the Nexus, exploring wormholes and mapping places that hadn’t been mapped before. Yet, the aggressive worlds in the Nexus do not threaten them with _their_ militaries. I do not see how Pern couldn’t do something similar, in exploring the galaxy. Eventually even the gigantic Southern Continent will be fully developed, and our people will need somewhere else to go, so that they don’t fight each other over Holdings. It would be nice to have already found another place to send those ambitious young folk, before they turn on each other.”

“What if I say no?” D’ram said.

“I imagine I’d visit a couple of Weyrs and talk to the senior—or senior of the junior—Weyrwomen. I had a small thought I might be going about it wrong, talking to you first and not a queenrider.”

“Humph,” Lessa said.

“Do you intend to step down from Benden Weyr?” Robinton asked her softly. “I didn’t think you would, not before the end of the Pass…but if you are…”

For a second, she caught his eye, and he _almost_ thought she might be taking his offer seriously. And his heart leapt.

Then she laughed. “You tempt me. But no, you’re right. We’ll stay at Benden until the end.”

“D’ram?” Robinton prompted again, willing his heart to stop pounding. (Funny how even a mechanical heart could pound…)

“Blast you. Yes, I’ll do it. You can’t _imagine_ what it’s been like, moldering down there at Cove, wondering what you and Lytol are up to. Why else do you think I went searching through _whens_ for you when you sent us the _vaguest_ message in the history of the universe?”

Robinton grinned.

“You should recruit a queenrider,” Lessa said. “Perhaps retired, so D’ram’s Tiroth doesn’t get ideas,” she teased. “Or replaced.”

“it’s on my list,” Robinton said. “My very long never-ending list.” He sighed. “Well. I imagine the Dendarii are wondering why we’re sitting here, doing nothing, when they’ve already extended a connection from their ship to ours. And my mother is supposed to wake up today. I think we should continue this conversation once we’re in the proper when. Thoughts?”

“I concur,” D’ram said.

Lessa nodded. “It’ll be more efficient if you’re around to tell this to F’lar yourself, Harper. Without me having to repeat it to him.”

“Then, until we’re in another when…” and Robinton patted the back of the seat he'd been leaning on, and began to put the ship back into order, so that when he visited it again many turns in the future for the first time, it would look untouched.

#

Merelan awoke. And she felt good, aside from a small bruise on her chest.

She wasn’t particularly sure why she felt good. The room was cramped, and strange-looking, and odd things were taped to her.

And then she remembered the surgeries. Well, not the surgeries themselves, but the discussion beforehand.

She took a deep breath. Let it out. Took another one, a proper one, and the bruise hurt a little, but when she let it out, rapidly rising and falling over a scale with her voice to test her capacity and control, it felt like the notes were supported effortlessly.

And _that_ hadn’t happened for a very long time.

As if her song had been designed to summon them, both Robinton and Captain Thorne poked their heads in to look at her.

And she laughed merrily at them. “So. I see you’re both here. Let’s get around to the business of faking my own death!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping this is the last info-dump of this type I'll do for a while. It's a good rule of thumb that if you bore yourself, you'll probably bore others. I just didn't want Robinton to magically manifest the things he needs without effort because that is dumb. So I wanted to show a bit of the journey.
> 
> As a heads up, I plan on rewriting Chapter 8 (the sex scene) again, because I'm still not fond of it and it bugs the ever-loving shit out of me. If you do actually like it, save a copy for yourself because it's going bye-bye sooner or later.
> 
> (It's probably wise in general to save copies of fics in case they vanish.)


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If at first you don't succeed, try another when!

**Chapter Twenty**

_Harper,_ AIVAS said, waking him from a dead sleep.

_Sound the alarm,_ Robinton instructed.

A sound, not unlike a threadfall siren, went off. Robinton pulled on a rumpled pair of trousers from yesterday, didn’t bother with shoes or a shirt, grabbed his jump adaptor, and launched himself into the hallway.

It was in the middle of most people’s sleep schedules, and he didn’t meet anyone. Those that _were_ awake were already at their stations in other rooms. Those that weren’t awake were probably groggily scrambling about in their quarters, readying for anything that might happen.

Robinton wondered where Thorne was, but when the door segregating the navigation room from the corridor opened for him, he found already there the Captain, and, surprisingly, his mother as well, seated at the chairs of two consoles talking.

“Time to go?” Thorne asked him, their eyes flicking over his unusually disarrayed form.

“Possibly. There’s a wormhole event happening. Mother, strap in please.”

Thorne assisted her in this regard, which vaguely disgruntled Robinton, but he was busy connecting the adaptor to the ship, and the ship to the adaptor, and it wasn’t something he could attend to himself. _AIVAS?_ _Are we ready?_

_Yes. Between my analysis of what happened the first time, and the extra data Ramoth and Tiroth helped us produce, I think we’ll be able to get to the_ when _we’re supposed to be in._

_Where’s Ramoth?_

_She and Lessa are no longer on the ship, they just left with the alarm._

_Tiroth?_

_They’re riding with us._

_I hope Tiroth is comfortable with being the passenger,_ Robinton said. It’s something he fretted about. The firelizards coped with it fine, but he had no idea how a dragon would take it. _He mustn’t jump away._

_My chassis is with D’ram, and I’ve reminded him._

_Thank you._

Windows of status data bloomed in Robinton’s mind’s eye, and appeared in the screens as well for Captain Thorne to peruse. Robinton sat back in his chair and identified a course to the wormhole as the Yokohama’s bay doors slowly slid open at AIVAS’ command. Once they were open, he gently maneuvered the rather large Ariel out of the bay, and saw the doors slowly close behind them in the Ariel’s rear cameras.

Vaguely, Robinton noted some of Thorne’s crew arriving. The woman who piloted the ship, several other navigation and sensor specialists. They took up places in the room, and gave Captain Thorne status updates in the background.

_AIVAS?_ Robinton asked, looking for his own status update.

_It’s oscillating. If it continues this way, it will be temporarily stable enough to enter at these three moments._

Times swam in Robinton’s vision.

_To make the first, you need to increase speed. If we don’t make it, you’ll need to maneuver, fast._

“I need to speed us up considerably,” Robinton said. His words echoed through the room’s com. “There’s a possibility for high-gee maneuvers if we don’t make it. We’ll have to veer to the side or flip.”

“Noted,” Thorne said.

And Robinton let the room fade from his awareness, and _became_ the ship.

The Ariel was _fast_ for a ship of its size. Its engines were powerful, and made Robinton, who felt the ship’s skin as his own in this moment, feel powerful and alive. But he’d never tapped them to their potential on the trip here. There had been no reason to do anything alarming from a Dendarri point of view.

But _now_ he tapped into them, and for a few minutes, he fretted that he’d somehow mess up the visualization _again_ on their way back.

He silenced that worry, though. When one’s smallest stray thought could change their final destination, one _must_ learn to master them!

Quickly, the wormhole grew in the “vision” and sensors of his ship. AIVAS was calculating its movement, and stability. The point of alignment, where they _must_ cross the boundary or abort the entry neared…

…neared…

…neared…

The altered-time state of his implant triggered and the last moments of approach stretched excruciatingly long…

And then they were _in_ , and going, _going_ and the music of the spheres rose in a joyful choir around him.

And within that joyful music that one person— _he_ —directed, Robinton held onto a single, solitary thought.

He wanted to be _home_ , in the proper _when_. Not in the past, not in the future. He wanted to be in the exact _when_ they’d supposed to have arrived in, with the Ariel’s clocks displaying a very specific time that hung in Robinton’s mind’s eye even now.

And that was fine, the music and the universe was _fine_ with it—

—and then the wormhole abruptly made a new fork beneath their feet, a chasm in the music around them, like an unruly brass section _demanding_ they come in, bugling, and all the conductor could do was wave his baton with forceful movements and a scowl at everyone to get back in line.

During that moment, Robinton-and-AIVAS/AIVAS-and-Robinton saw a valid route, and dove to take it, like a graceful firelizard making a summersault in mid-air when some other lizard or threat got too near.

Then the wormhole spat them out, and what was intended to be a single summersault within the wormhole turned into two, three as the wartime maneuvers kicked in. Check for dangers | check for dangers | check for dangers…

He executed those perfectly, with as much joy as Zair took in dashing across the tops of waves, and as a slow, slow bubble of laughter rumbled through his chest in perceptually-slowed time, Robinton-and-AIVAS located the shining star of Rukbat, and from there, Pern, in the exact _right_ place, in the right _when._ As the other pilot slowly yammered in the background, they zoomed at high speed towards the Yokohama.

There _was_ a problem. The people around him fluttered withit. But in the larger scheme of things, this problem was so meaningless that Robinton discarded it. AIVAS noted it, but as it posed no risk to life or limb (quite the opposite) it was assigned lower priority, to be examined later.

When Robinton was kicked out of the altered-time, however, Thorne’s pilot immediately made it a high priority.

“Shit, shit, shit, we’re in the wrong system, the stars are _all wrong!_ It’s not the right system!”

“Oh, we’re _fine_ , my dear lady!” Robinton called cheerfully from his seat, laughter in his voice.

“How can you say that? We made a jump, but my board is _full_ of errors—“

“Is it the clocks switching back, my dear?” Robinton asked. “I’m pretty sure AIVAS told everyone to prepare for that! Haven’t you people learned to listen to AIVAS yet? He’s smarter than all of us put together!”

“We’re supposed to be in a binary system, back in the system we were before, and _this_ system has only one sun—“

“It’s the Rukbat system! Home sweet home! From _my_ perspective at least. Admittedly, the wormhole got a little… _tricky_. It’s like it doesn’t even know what it wants to _be_ yet, like a babe being born, so we did a bit of a flip inside, selected the right _when_ this time, and here we are. Easy birth, right out of the canal with no complications and only a little gyration.”

Thorne murmured, “It looks like we made a U-turn in the wormhole to come out at Rukbat, where we started, instead of exiting where we planned.”

Robinton stabbed a forefinger at the air. _“Where_ we started, but not _when!”_ He laughed again with delight.

“God, he’s _sounding_ like a jump pilot,” the other jump pilot said in disgust. “Do I sound batshit crazy after a jump, too?”

“Afraid so,” Thorne said wickedly.

Robinton continued to emit little cackles of joy from the wormhole-song still lingering in his brain, and peeled himself out of the pilot’s seat, tucked the adaptor into a pocket, and trotted out into the hallway to find D’ram and Tiroth, as Zair did happy loops around him.

#

“Tiroth!” Robinton said excitedly to the bronze dragon, holding his arms wide. “How did you like your first wormhole jump? You’re still _here!_ I was afraid you might not trust me when we went in, _you’re_ usually the one jumping, but I’m very glad you did.”

D’ram gave Robinton a very odd look—nobody but another dragonrider really addressed dragons in this fashion, it Was Not Done—and even Tiroth looked a little surprised, his bronze neck arching so he could focus a faceted eye down on Robinton, who stood a few yards away from his forefeet.

Robinton stood with his arms slightly outstretched, and received no reply.

And he was sweating profusely for some odd reason.

AIVAS moved away from D’ram’s side, and put a hand on Robinton’s shoulder. “Perhaps we should shower, and look presentable, before we engage in further conversation?”

“I _would_ comb my hair, but I have no hair,” Robinton said. “I lost it all after you claimed me. One day I have no hair, the next my follicles are in shock, and I’m molting. It’s very tragic, my self-esteem may _never_ recover. Nor my hair.” But he linked his arm in AIVAS’, and danced with him across the cargo hold, singing, “We’re home, we’re home, we’re home!”

#

Whatever nuttiness had stricken him in the wormhole had mostly faded by the time he finished his shower, and stood in the small room letting warm jets of air dry him off. _Am I all right, AIVAS?_

AIVAS said, _For the most part, yes. I believe the switch between_ whens _crossed a few of your neurons a bit harder than they usually cross for you on wormhole jumps, but you otherwise seem in great health. You may want to apologize to the pilot; you were being charmingly patronizing, and she was not charmed at all._

_Ah. I’m losing my touch. Shall I try harder to charm her?_

_She dislikes anyone but her piloting the ship._

_I take it that’s a no. I will apologize._

Combing his still-disappointing, short shock of hair into order, Robinton pulled on his most formal clothing as he made himself presentable. Fine trousers in a lovely shade of green, a cream-color shirt with embroidery of blue and green firelizards around the cuffs, a long green thigh-length sleeveless vest buttoned in the front. He twined his rank knots around one shoulder—the Harper blue of a Master of that Craft, and the pastel blue, violet, and red of the Masterdiplomat. On the other shoulder he strapped a well-worn leather rest for Zair to cling to, to avoid the firelizard’s sharp little nails from putting tiny little holes into the fine fabric of his outfit. Belt and belt-knife were arranged at his waist, and lastly, he pulled comfortable, well-used and well-cared-for boots onto his feet.

When Robinton entered the navigation room again, it was much quieter, with specialists talking to themselves, the other pilot silently combing through logs, and Captain Thorne was talking to his mother again.

Thorne and his mother looked up when he entered.

Robinton gave them a wry smile, then approached the pilot and cleared his throat politely.

She turned. Blinked at his very formal, very Pernese getup.

Bowing respectfully to her, Robinton took her hand and lightly brushed his lips against her knuckles. “My deepest apologies for my earlier remarks, my lady. I was not entirely aware of myself, and my words to you were disrespectful. You are senior to me in this Craft, more experienced certainly, and deserved better. I _will_ do better to comport myself appropriately in the future.”

She stared at him.

He released her hand, turned to Captain Thorne. “We’re in the correct place, and time,” Robinton said. “Which means I must get on with the tasks I came here to do. D’ram and I will leave a-dragonback, and be on the surface for about a month, I estimate. I will try to stay in contact; if you use the methods AIVAS has forwarded to you, you can link to the Yokohama and we will send updates to you from Landing at least once a week, if not more frequently. I expect to return with a wing of dragons, and Crafters that need to be transported to the Pernese embassy on Beta Colony. Once we arrive there, this half of my contract with Admiral Naismith will be completed.” A pause. “I may bring firelizard eggs with me, as I’m not entirely sure if the queens off-world will be producing clutches soon.”

“The Admiral would be happy to hear that,” Captain Thorne said. “Will they need any special accommodation?”

“Heat, like the lamps that keep food warm in the mess, and sand. If you can devise a way to provide the heat, we can bring the sand. Pern has plenty of it.”

Thorne nodded.

Turning to his mother, Robinton studied her and said, “How are you feeling?”

Complex emotions flickered across her face, and then she said, “I was able to sing the aria your father wrote for me for our espousal. Start to finish, no pauses, no substitutions.”

“You’ve _never_ made substitutions, mother. You’re an exemplary vocalist, and always have been.”

“That’s a sweet lie, Robie, but it’s still a lie. I’ve had to do that more often as I’ve gotten older. Until now.”

“Would you like to come with D’ram and me? Or stay here so the medics can keep an eye on you?”

Thorne said, “The decoy will be ready in about five days. _When_ you wish to deploy it will be up to all of you.”

She nodded. “I’d like to come along, Robinton. If D’ram will aid us when it’s time to use the doppelganger Captain Thorne’s people are devising.”

“He will,” Robinton assured her.

#

As Merelan accompanied Robinton to the cargo hold where D’ram and Tiroth and AIVAS waited, there was no trace of the wildly-laughing, drolly self-assured… _character_ …she’d witnessed Robinton perform earlier today. Instead, he was fully every inch a Craftmaster now, self-assured and confident, as different from that half-dressed, wild-haired, dramatic _performer_ cackling to himself in joy as anything could be.

Both personas were so _different_ from the Robinton she remembered. Had he simply become wildly eccentric with age?

Yet, every so often, something of the young man, or even boy he’d been, flashed through. A choice of words, an expression, an opinion or idea she’d seen in their less-evolved nascent forms. So he wasn’t entirely lost within his own performances.

Speaking of performances, she wasn’t sure she felt quite ready. She hadn’t brought a change of clothes with her to the Ariel. Her issues breathing had been deemed more important. And if they would have killed her that turn, she supposed that was true. But she did wish she was wearing something different. (Although, she realized, the feeling might simply be because she stuck out amongst the Dendarii so much. Maybe all she needed was to be back on Pern again, among people dressed like Robinton and D’ram…)

At D’ram’s direction, she climbed up behind him, and Robinton sat behind her, and with a mighty spring into the upper levels of the cargo hold, they went _between_.

Seconds passed. It was cold, and black, and she couldn’t see or feel or hear the men on either side of her, or the dragon underneath.

Then they emerged into light.

Humid, heavy air and the crashing of waves and the smell of the salty sea flooded her senses, and she saw over her shoulder that they were above a coastal hold she’d never seen before. There was a cove below, a nearly perfect semi-circle with a few small ships bobbing in its waters. Inland, perfectly centered, there was a breathtaking mountain rising up far in the distance. A modest hold of a tropical design unfamiliar to her was likewise centered perfectly in the center of the cove, just above the high-tide line. It had wide windows for catching breezes, and wide porches for lazy evenings with friends. Next to it a familiar, huge golden queen dragon lay sunning herself on the beach near one of the porches. Merelan could just barely see a tiny figure swinging back and forth in one of the hammocks.

“Now,” Robinton said in her ear. “We’re _really_ home! This is Cove Hold, where D’ram and I live. Someday, I’ll tell you the story of how Master Menolly and I discovered it!”

Master Menolly. Yes, she was starting to think she really needed to meet this woman. Robinton mentioned her so frequently…

Physical discomfort quickly chased that thought of her head though. Autumn Gather clothes suited for the Harper Hall were really unsuitable for such a southern Hold (were they truly on the Southern Continent?), and Merelan found herself sweating heavily by the time Tiroth landed on the sandy beach. 

When they had dismounted, Merelan swiped a lock of sweaty hair out of her face and said, “Rob—is there something in the stores that I can borrow? Something cooler to change into? The Egg forbid I go through all of that to avoid my death, only to die of sunstroke here!”

For a second, Robinton looked petrified, like a small child who couldn’t quite discern the difference between a jest and reality, as if he thought she might abruptly die of sunstroke right here on the spot, then he said, “Yes! Yes, Menolly keeps some changes of clothes here. I’m sure she won’t mind you borrowing them.”

D’ram said, “We can visit a Weaver, have something commissioned. Or visit a Gather, if you’d rather something sooner. There’s a Gather in Ruatha today, if I remember.”

Merelan touched D’ram’s arm. “I couldn’t possibly impose on you—“

“I can, I will,” Robinton interrupted. “D’ram, Lord Jaxom will want to know Lytol’s status anyway. And Lady Sharra is familiar with both northern and southern fashions.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” D’ram said. “I already offered. Convince your mother!”

Two pairs of eyes landed on her.

Merelan hesitated and said, “…is it wise to refer to me as his mother?”

A long silence.

Then, dramatically, Robinton swayed on his feet, put a hand over his heart, and said, “Am I being disowned…Merelan?”

“No, Rob. Don’t be silly. I was thinking of your status. And your rank. And how I _look_ like I could be your sister.”

“That’s charitable. You could be my _daughter.”_ Robinton hesitated. “I would never forsake you, mother. If you _want_ to be known as my mother, I will happily tell everyone that it’s true.”

“They’ll be able to use my presence against you, Rob,” she said. “Unless rescuing people from untimely deaths is a regular occurrence in this when?”

Unhappily, Robinton didn’t speak.

“Lots of people would love to go back in time to save their loved ones,” D’ram murmured. “The Weyrs say no, each time someone asks. She’s not wrong that it’ll look like you’re abusing your rank and position.”

“Yes, but—I’m _not_ ashamed of loving my mother! She’s my mother!” Robinton protested.

Merelan took Robinton’s hands, and said, “If you can call your sire ‘Petiron’, you can call me ‘Merelan’.”

Robinton flinched.

“Are we wrong?” She saw in his eyes that he felt they weren’t. “Are you unable to bear letting _me_ protect _you_ in this tiny, small way?”

“Are you angry that things ended with my sire the way they did?” he asked.

“Yes. I can’t help but feel disappointed that you never reconciled with him.”

A frown creased his face.

“But who am I to throw that stone?” she added in a low voice. “I’ve decided _life_ without him is more desirable than death with him. So I would not read much into it, Rob. Not now, when I haven’t even yet gone back _whens_ to say my final good-byes. There’s a lot of things I _feel_ that aren’t logical or useful at all at the moment. Perhaps someday in a tragic ballad they’ll become useful, but not today.”

He nodded, then said, reluctance thick in his tone, “It _would_ help if you were not commonly known as my mother. I think, also, you’ll endure fewer pot-shots yourself.”

“Then that’s settled. Call me Merelan.”

He gave her a look that was somewhere between unhappy and worried. “I suppose.” A pause, and a sigh. “I will. Merelan.”

She smiled and reached up to touch his face briefly.

“Well. Clothing. Let’s see what Menolly might have set aside. AIVAS,” Robinton said. “We should put together a wardrobe for you as well.” Raising his voice, and a hand, he called to the woman still swinging on the hammock on the porch, “Weyrwoman! Will you join us later at Ruatha?”

#

Robinton and D’ram gave Merelan a brief tour of the comfortable Hold, but she knew she wouldn’t remember where everything was just yet. Not unless she stayed here a while—and if she had to go to a hospital on Beta Colony to complete the Healing that was done to her, she wasn’t sure she’d be staying.

Her son’s quarters, however, certainly stuck in her mind. He had items on his wall that he’d inherited from her, and she from her mother, and she touched them with a smile. And everywhere, everywhere it was a mess. A haphazardly-tidied mess, but a mess all the same, with papers and hides that had music and hides that weren’t music tucked everywhere.

It also had an odd odor, like the faint scent of sickness, slowly being blown away by Cove Hold’s tropical breezes.

Robinton’s wardrobe on one side of the room was large, made of fine wood with fellis blooms and braided rivergrain stems carved into it. He opened it, and inside were tunics and trousers, weyrhides and beach wraps. On the far right side, a few sets of women’s clothing hung, and beside those, more men’s clothing, separated from the rest, made of coarser, hard-worn weave in different sizes, some that would fit Robinton, some that were for a much shorter man.

“Oh, this is beautiful,” Merelan remarked, pulling out a pleated thigh-length skirt in Harper blue. It was made of a light, airy fabric, perfect to keep one cool in the Southern warmth. The bottom hem had simple embroidery in silver of firelizards cavorting.

“Will it fit?” Robinton asked, taking it out.

She held it up to her waist. “I think so. But she won’t mind? This is lovely.”

“Menolly’s real wardrobe is at the Harper Hall. If this was a particular favorite of hers, it would be there, not here. What about this shirt to go with?”

The shirts, unfortunately, were not generous enough in the chest for Merelan, and were passed over to AIVAS, who was able to wear a sleeveless shirt that bared their muscular arms. 

Eventually, Merelan found a wrap that could be arranged in a cross around her front, and tied in the back, and it had a lovely pattern of sky blue and gray clouds on it, and when she emerged from behind the dressing screen, she felt decidedly less prone to fainting from the heat.

“I found a comb you can use,” Robinton said, and moved to hand her a lovely bit of silvered work. Then he paused and plucked some long hairs from it, dark and light, and waggled them at AIVAS as he pressed the comb into her hand. “Someday I won’t look like a shorn ovine. Someday!”

As she combed her hair, Robinton pulled out a change of clothes himself, leaving his old, Mastercraftsman finery bedecking the screen, and reappeared eventually in lighter-weight pants in a red-brown shade and a short-sleeve tunic in cream well-tailored to his long torso. Around his waist, he had an understated leather belt, and a well-made but equally unremarkable belt knife hung from it. Around his neck he attempted to tie a simple decorative scarf, and was pressing his chin unflatteringly into his chest as he tried to see what he was doing.

AIVAS rescued him, and with some folds and an intricate knot that didn’t look intricate at all once it was complete, the scarf stopped looking like some odd aberration and became part of the outfit. Not something that would have been seen in her when, but this wasn’t her when.

“Is it this warm at Ruatha?” Merelan asked.

“Not this warm, but warm enough,” Robinton said, after cocking his head to the side for a moment. “Do you want to use Menolly’s weyrhides for the jump _between_?”

She did, and shortly they were outside again, and mounting D’ram’s Tiroth.

#

Ruatha Hold was when she truly felt she was in another _when_.

So many details were _different_. Buildings that should be places were gone, or were in states of nearly incomprehensible age. The _colors_ of the hold were different—no longer was Ruatha a spot of well-tended grey-brown rock with a flaring skirt of vivid green. All green had been completely scoured away from any place remotely resembling a cothold or building, with a ferocity that struck her as unnecessarily militant until she remembered that this was the Ninth Pass, and that thread had truly returned. The complete scouring of greenery from livable places was not the mark of a pedantic traditionalist, but simple common sense.

In the place of the greenery she remembered were artificial colors, used with abandon across any stone feature that could sport them. Thread-shutters that didn’t display their natural bright copper or foggy green hues were painted in shades of yellow and blue and red, and glass in windows was almost always tinted so that the light falling within was any and every shade of the rainbow. In many of the deep window-wells she saw as Tiroth circled with them above the hold, she could see vibrant cushions in many designs and colors.

Even the Gather, as Tiroth began to descend, was different. At one end, there were the usual corrals and stalls for prize runners, but on the edges of those stone edifices glowed lighting that wasn’t fire or glows. It was more akin with the strange, cold lights of the Ariel. And music floated up from the Harper stage—which, in this when, was not a stone platform set aside on its own, but one of several platforms, well-placed around the Gather areas. No Harpers had lungs strong enough to project the music this far into the air where dragons soared, not when the wind was whipping her hair around her face, and yet she could still catch strains of music.

In her ear, Robinton said, “Lord Jaxom is Holder here. He is the only son of Fax, but is nothing like his father. His mother was Gemma, a cousin to the main Ruathan Bloodline of your time. Jaxom was fostered with Lord Warder Lytol, formerly L’tol rider of brown Larth, and Lytol did an excellent job of ensuring Lord Jaxom grew up a better man than the one who begat him. Jaxom can be a little adventurous, he unexpectedly Impressed the white dragon Ruth, which caused a huge fuss for a while there, but it turned out for the best. His wife is the Lady Sharra, sister of Lord Toric of Southern Hold. A very nice young woman, and a friend of Menolly’s. I think you’ll like her.”

The white dragon that Robinton had mentioned appeared very soon, as Tiroth winged close to the Hold and at Ruth’s bugle of greeting, settled them down near the diminutive white dragon. Another dragon, Ramoth, was already there, serenely watching people come and go from the Hold proper to the Gather. Next to Ramoth was a bronze Merelan didn’t recognize.

“Tiroth says Ruth says they’re all inside,” D’ram advised as they dismounted.

“Will I need to go with you to the Gather, AIVAS?” Robinton said.

The woman paused. “I believe so, yes. I doubt the signal will be reliable, and while Ruatha has a network of some sort, I imagine I would frighten the Smiths if we used it without asking permission first.”

“We will ask permission, then,” Robinton said cheerfully.

The doors of Ruatha were flung wide-open to take advantage of the warm summer day, and Merelan and AIVAS trailed in the wake of Robinton and D’ram, taking in the sights. The people, especially, drew Merelan’s curious gaze. All the clothing was different from what she was used to, some of the designs shocking even (although she had never counted herself as someone with excessively delicate sensibilities), and in this era of Pern, everyone seemed to love _color._ On their clothes, on their tapestries…

Except for one tapestry. Merelan found herself stopping in front of a hanging that was mostly stark contrasts, pale stars on a dark background. It was positioned in Ruatha’s entryway in such a way that it was clear it held a position of honor.

The two men, chatting to each other, didn’t give it a glance and began ascending one of the grand, wide stairways without her.

AIVAS said, “This is the guide Weyrwoman Lessa used to jump back in time to bring the Weyrs forward. The stars are very accurately spaced, and when you compare them to a map of the sky, they encode a very specific date.”

“Have we always been a star-faring people, and I simply didn’t know it?” Merelan mused.

“Yes. Ask me to share my story later. I held my tongue among the Dendarii, and else here already knows it, but I think, _madre de mi amigo,_ I should tell you.”

“What were those words?”

“A galactic language, Spanish. Like a dialect or accent, but so diverged that it’s all but impossible to puzzle it out. Dedicated study is required to master a new language, if you did not grow up hearing it. I will translate it for you later.”

She nodded.

“Merelan?” Robinton said, and she looked up and saw him and D’ram paused midway up the stairs. They stood right in the middle of the stairs, with other people splitting around them like a stream around a rock, and many of those people gave them second glances, particularly at Robinton, who seemed recognized by almost everyone.

Smiling, she hasted her pace—amazed that she _could_ without getting out of breath or having her heart feel like it was going to beat right out of her chest—and said, “AIVAS was telling me about the history of that tapestry. She said Lessa brought the Weyrs forward using it as a guide.”

“’He’,” Robinton corrected. “And yes, Lessa did. She remembered it from her girlhood, then had Lord Warder Lytol pull it out of storage, and the rest became history.”

“You’re a he?” she asked AIVAS.

“For the public’s purposes…more or less. At Landing, I adopted a baritone voice when I was discovered, so the Pernese believed me male. On Beta Colony, I adopted a hermaphrodite chassis, so Betans believe me a herm, like Captain Thorne. You, clearly, see me as female. But as most Pernese believe I am male, it will be less confusing if you address me as such, too.”

“If you wish,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be impolite.”

“I know.”

Merelan studied AIVAS’ face. Then she thought about the other thing she learned. “Captain Thorne isn’t a woman?” Merelan asked, as they all began walking up the stairs again.

“No.” And as they walked, AIVAS explained Beta Colony’s third sex, and also how his own usage of a herm body but male pronouns was idiosyncratic and shouldn’t be applied to Thorne.

“Belle… _Bel_ never said anything.” Merelan said. “They didn’t seem offended.”

“Captain Thorne likely picks and chooses their battles,” AIVAS said. “Herms are not common on planets that aren’t Beta. The confusion others regard them with is not an unfamiliar dance.”

At the top of the stairs, some people recognized Robinton and D’ram and called out hellos. Robinton stopped to chat briefly with all of them, made wry remarks about having recovered and “not being dead yet!” But somehow, despite the frequent pauses, they made decent time and ended up in a well-appointed sitting room where five people were having klah and meatrolls. Weyrwoman Lessa was the only one Merelan recognized, although two of the dragonriders, the one with the Benden Weyrleader knots and the one with brownrider knots were undoubtedly weyrbred. She could see S’loner in both of their faces. Sitting across from the dragonriders were two young people, one with the knot of the Lord of Ruatha on his shoulder, which made him Lord Jaxom, and a woman, probably Lady Sharra.

The woman jumped up first, and embraced Robinton tightly. He returned the embrace. “You’re back, Master Robinton! And you look so good! Although I’m not sure if short hair is the right look for you—“

“I don’t think it’s the right look for me either, but I’m making do for now. Unless the Healers have some sort of secret I’m not unaware of, that might restore my luscious locks? Or is there some Southern remedy?”

“Only if you want to stain your scalp green, smell like a trundlebug, and part from far too many marks for the experience,” the woman said.

“It’s a _deal,_ Lady Sharra,” Robinton said. “How many marks do I owe you?”

Several people chuckled, including Sharra. “No, no, no, you’re supposed to _spot_ the grift, not give into it. What sort of Harper are you?”

“The thirsty kind!” Robinton said. “I don’t suppose there’s any wine? ‘A Harper mark and a fellis bloom for some wine?’” he added in a wheedling, old-man voice. “My journey was long, and so is my tale…”

“Where is Brekke?” the brownrider abruptly asked.

Robinton instantly sobered. “Your weyrmate is well, F’nor. She is still back on Beta Colony, our nearest neighbor. She is looking into additional medical training for herself, and helping Lytol set up a minor hold representing Pern to our neighbors.”

Lady Sharra looked beyond Robinton and D’ram and said, “Master Robinton, will you introduce us to your guests? Or are they _your_ guests, D’ram?”

Robinton said, “Yes, shame on me for getting distracted at the prospect of wine—there _is_ wine, right?” he grinned, and Lord Jaxom got up and brought a skin and some glasses out. “Our auburn-haired fellow here is AIVAS, remotely piloting this mechanical body that you see before you now.”

“AIVAS?” Lord Jaxom said in surprise. His wasn’t the only noise of surprise.

AIVAS, wearing a skirt and the sleeveless shirt, bowed, and said, “Yes, I am AIVAS,” in a baritone much deeper than the voice Merelan had heard him use before. Then he said, his voice slowly slipping up from that low baritone to something in the tenor/alto range, “We were able to procure this chassis for me on Beta Colony, allowing me to be much more mobile than I was before at Landing.”

“And this is the Singer Merelan,” Robinton said, “From the Harper Hall. She is acting as my assistant while Menolly is running an errand for me amongst galactics.”

“You’re Robinton’s new student?” Lady Sharra asked in interest.

“No, no,” Robinton said quickly. “Merelan is a Master of the Harper Hall in her own right. In many things I’m her student, _not_ the other way around,” Robinton said.

“That was true before,” Merelan said pleasantly. “But now the roles seem reversed, and I have much to learn. Will you introduce me to the room, Robie?”

Swiftly, Robinton named Sharra, Lady of Ruatha. Jaxom, Lord of Ruatha and rider of white Ruth. Weyrwoman Lessa of Benden, rider of golden Ramoth. Weyrleader F’lar of Benden, rider of bronze Mnementh. F’nor, rider of brown Canth, and F’lar’s second.

Then Robinton said, “Sharra, Merelan’s northern wardrobe really isn’t conductive to the climate at Cove. Would you have any suggestions for where we could get Merelan some suitable things? Normally I’d ask Menolly, but it will be a while before I can do that, as she’s on assignment for me.”

“Of course!” Lady Sharra said.

Lessa cut in. “Dressing for the occasion is always important. However, before we lose any of you to the Gather, perhaps tell them what you’ve been up to? So _I_ won’t have to.”

Making a “come here” gesture to the wine Lord Jaxom had poured—the young man promptly handed a glass over—Robinton said, “That _almost_ sounded like a threat, Weyrwoman.”

Her smile was sweet and full of teeth. “It was, Harper!”

#

Merelan hadn’t heard most of the story before. And when it was over—or at least, coming to the intermission where everyone else in the room began talking about different aspects of the story, or brooding in the case of Weyrleader F’lar—she realized that for all that her own recent events were crazy, all of this seemed far crazier.

Robinton had Impressed. Not a dragon. AIVAS. Who looked like a person, and spoke like a person, but was actually a clever machine.

A wormhole had opened. That part she obviously knew about, but now she had an account of how many times Robinton had jumped, who he’d brought with on the voyage, and what they’d done on Beta Colony.

Robinton intended to found a new Crafthall—in fact, the galactics already thought he was the head of one! Along with Lytol and D’ram!—and make a miniature Conclave out of it. To protect Pern from anything that might come through the wormhole in the Rukbat system. He needed to recruit people to do this. Holders, Crafters, _and_ dragonriders!

They especially needed jump pilots. And they needed to make or purchase jump ships. And—hear him out!—did F’lar and F’nor think the trick of sending people back _whens_ so that they would be ready _today_ was feasible? “I wouldn’t ask this if I didn’t think the situation was serious, my dear friends.”

Conversation continued, some of it heated at times, but Robinton always seemed to be able to calm it down before it boiled over.

The sun fell low, glow pots were opened. A meal was brought by Ruatha Hold’s headwoman and her assistants, and consumed by all, and between bites, F’lar and Lessa and F’nor took turns questioning Robinton, with occasional commentary from Lord Jaxom or Sharra.

Then, when the conversations were winding down—Robinton withdrew to a corner to talk to a very intent F’lar, D’ram talked to Lessa and F’nor—the seat next to Merelan dented, and Lady Sharra was there.

“I should have anticipated this was going to happen, and insisted we visit the Gather first. Why don’t we have the weaver take your measurements before they go to bed? And you can borrow some things of mine to tide you over—we seem about the same shape.”

“Yes, thank you,” Merelan said. Then she leaned over to search for Robinton’s companion, and said, “AIVAS?”

The androgynoid came over to them.

“You need clothes too, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh?” Sharra said in surprise. “Yes, I can get you sorted. You’ve done so much for us AIVAS, getting clothes for you shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Will we be going far into the hold?” AIVAS asked.

“Possibly…”

“Can your Smiths give me a connection for your network first?”

“…you’re not able to connect?”

“I don’t think the Smiths who set it up anticipated that I would ever be anywhere but at Landing," AIVAS said. “There is no default account set up for me. I could _make_ one—but it would alarm the Smiths overseeing the network.”

“Yes, let’s get it done.”

#

Lady Sharra whispered in her husband’s ear where they were going, and then Merelan found herself linked arm-in-arm on one side of Sharra. AIVAS, somehow, ended up on Sharra’s other arm, and they proceeded through the hold, where Sharra knocked on a door, apologized to the child that opened it, and woke up the Smith so that AIVAS could connect to the computer network.

The smith was groggy at first, but then boggled when he was told the golden-skinned, auburn-haired, amber-eyed person next to Sharra was AIVAS in a prosthetic body.

“An android!” the smith said in excitement, typing into his computer excitedly and peering at the results in the screen. “I read about those!”

“Technically, an androgynoid. ‘Andro’ stands for man, ‘gynoid’ for woman.”

“That’s remarkable. You _must_ go see Master Fandarel!”

“I’m sure the Harper and I will visit him soon,” AIVAS promised. “Ah. I have network access now; thank you.”

“No, thank _you!”_

After the smith, they went up to the Lord and Lady of Ruatha’s quarters, where Lady Sharra sent a drudge to fetch the weaver before they went to bed, and brought Merelan and AIVAS into a dressing room. “Anything here, you can have if it fits,” Sharra said. “Lytol is a _fiend_ for clothes—I suppose he was a Journeyman weaver before he was Lord Warder of Ruatha, so it’s not exactly secret, but you wouldn’t _think_ he is a clothes-hound from the way he acts. Go on, take whatever you want. I will never wear most of this. But he always sends me more. Or maybe he makes more,” she added thoughtfully. “I’m not sure. I think he misses having daughters, else we’d tell him to stop.”

And as the woman talked, she began pulling out shirts and skirts, blouses and dresses, tunics and trousers, holding them up to either Merelan or AIVAS and then putting things into a pile intended for one or the other to try. “Merelan, what sort of occasions will you attend? Will you be Harpering?”

“I’m a Singer, so yes, I’ll be singing.”

“Hmm, try these.”

Soon enough, Merelan had a great pile of clothing of all kinds, and the pile showed little signs of stopping, when she noticed AIVAS had quietly sat down on a bench next to his pile of clothes, trying nothing on.

“AIVAS,” Merelan said.

“Yes?”

“Do you prefer men’s clothing?” she asked.

“Oh, we have that too,” Sharra said, and opened another wardrobe, which was full of tunics and trousers. “Pick what you want.”

But AIVAS didn’t move.

Putting down a lavender tunic, Merelan rose and sat down next to AIVAS, smoothing her skirt across her knees. “What do you need? We can’t help you if we don’t know.”

The androgynoid tilted its head, and blinked once at her. “I’m waiting for a break in the conversation between Robinton and F’lar, so I can ask what Robinton thinks I should have.”

Sharra said, “I can’t imagine the Harper would disapprove of anything you’d choose. You wouldn’t be able to believe what _Piemur_ gets away with wearing after he’s been roaming Southern by himself for a few months!”

“I don’t believe the Harper would disapprove of anything I chose. You’re right about that facet of his personality.” But AIVAS didn’t move.

Merelan was about to ask AIVAS again what he needed, but a tailor poked her head in. “You wanted to see me, Lady Sharra?”

“Yes! I’m sorry it’s so late, but I was hoping we could get Master Merelan—“

Cutting in gently, Merelan said, “If I may make a correction—I don’t have the rank of Master. I’m a Singer, it’s a different hierarchy within the Harper Hall.”

Sharra side-eyed her, struggled for a moment, then said, “The Singer Merelan, then, and AIVAS, measured for clothing. They might not be around in the morning—you never know if Master Robinton is going to stay the night or run off somewhere else if he hears a rider is headed that way.”

“How _is_ Master Robinton doing?” the tailor said, putting a sewing bag down and taking out several rolled cloth measuring tapes.

“Much, much better than he was a few months ago!” Sharra said. “He’s still terribly thin—AIVAS, you need to make him eat more!”

“Believe me, Lady Sharra, I am trying.”

“—but his mind is intact, which wasn’t a sure thing after the coma—“

Merelan stood still as the tailor expertly moved her tape around her body.

“And he’s still very mobile and active, which is important for a man of his age—“

“Do you have Healer training?” Merelan asked.

Sharra blinked. “Oh yes, I was a Healer before I met Jaxom.”

“What happened to put Robinton into a coma?”

AIVAS interjected himself into the conversation, “He had his heart fail at Landing. It took some time for me to repair it. The coma, Lady Sharra, was so that he _would_ come out of the procedure with his mind intact. The resources I had to make the repairs to his heart were limited, and the brain is a hungry organ. Unfortunately, the coma had to last a while because I’m an AI specialized in stellar navigation, not medicine. I had to work very slowly, to ensure no mistakes were made.”

Both the tailor and Sharra regarded AIVAS in surprise.

“I would like the gossip about Robinton to be correct,” AIVAS said. “At least a little.”

The tailor laughed, a little self-consciously. “I told myself I’d never grow up to be my auntie, but here I am, gossiping!”

“With me helping you,” Sharra said wryly. Then to AIVAS, “We were, and are, very concerned for him. At least it comes from a place of love.”

“Yes, and he knows that,” AIVAS reassured them.

Sharra said, “Can he hear out of your ears, like Ruth and Jaxom?”

“If we wanted to,” AIVAS said. “He’s generally more concerned with his own ears, though. Also, he’s headed this way to give his opinion on my clothing.”

“AIVAS Impressed Robinton,” Sharra explained to the tailor. “That’s how AIVAS knows where Robinton is, like Ruth can track Jaxom.”

“That’s…not something I ever would have expected to hear,” the tailor said, noting down the last few measurements from Merelan, before standing and approaching AIVAS. “I can’t say you didn’t make a good choice, though,” she said to him. Crisply, she put the tape around AIVAS in several places, noted the measurements, then frowned.

“This chassis has a blend of male and female characteristics,” AIVAS said. “I expect patterns may need to be altered from what is typical.”

“Oh, I don’t mind a challenge,” the tailor said. “I don’t mind at all.”

True to AIVAS’ word, there was soon a soft rap on the outside of the dressing room door, and a familiar voice said, “Are you presentable, ladies?”

“Come in, Robie,” Merelan said.

He poked his head around the corner, hand over his eyes, then peeked out a bit, and, upon finding she wasn’t lying, dropped his hand and came in, grinning. “I like that look, Merelan.”

“Doesn’t she look good in those reds?” Lady Sharra asked, then smiled at Merelan. “Put you in front a bunch of Harpers in blue and you’ll stand out for sure.” Then she said, “Weaver, do we have a cover for Merelan’s things? A dragon can fight thread, but they’re not too good at picking flapping skirts out of the air without damaging them. Ask me how I know!”

“Oh, about that, Sharra,” Robinton said.

“Flying clothing?”

He chuckled. “No, no. I mean travel in general.”

Sharra smiled.

“Would it be a terrible imposition if Merelan and AIVAS were to stay overnight?”

“No, not at all. But it sounds like you’re not staying?”

“I have one more stop to make. But there’s no reason to make anyone else stay up with me,” he flashed a smile at Merelan, “Not when I’ll be telling the same old story all over again.”

“Where are you headed?” Merelan asked.

“I need to have a little chat with Sebell. I don’t believe he’s aware that I’m back yet, otherwise he would have shown up by now.”

“I _was_ wondering why he wasn’t here,” Sharra said.

Robinton chuckled. Then he said, “We’d also like to leave AIVAS’ chassis here temporarily. Which is to say, he will become inert and unresponsive. Like how the AIVAS room at Landing currently is. Is there a safe place to do that?”

“I don’t need a bed,” AIVAS said. “Just a space reasonably secure so little children don’t find me and pretend to feed me bubbly pies like a doll.”

A series of expressions appeared on Sharra’s face, as if she didn’t know whether to laugh or be outraged. “We _have_ a _bed_ for you, AIVAS.”

AIVAS gave her a little bow.

Robinton said, “Thank you, Sharra. And not to pressure you, but we need to get AIVAS settled before I leave. I can’t leave until he is secure.”

“Then we’ll do that now.”

#

Lady Sharra put Merelan into a room adjacent to AIVAS’, and after Merelan put the clothing she’d been gifted away, she poked her head in to see what was going on.

AIVAS lay on the bed, atop the covers, and while Sharra stood watching, Robinton pushed his fingers into AIVAS’ armpit, and the posture of the form on the bed relaxed, and its eyes closed. And its chest stopped breathing. If Merelan believed in such things, she would have sworn she’d seen a soul exit the body.

Robinton said, “The machine is fully deactivated now. He won’t respond to anyone talking to him or shaking him, so it would be best if nobody tries to wake him for a meal, or come in to clean this room. It would especially be nice if nobody mistook him for a corpse.”

Merelan had a bit of déjà vu, if one could have that for events that hadn’t yet been carried out yet. This would be _her_ , in another when.

“I’ll tell the headwoman that this room isn’t to be disturbed,” Sharra promised. “Although I’m surprised you’re not taking him to the Harper Hall with you.”

“Sebell was one of the first people I told upon waking. He doesn’t need to see to believe.” Robinton rose, saw Merelan in the doorway, and smiled. “M—Merelan,” he said, the substitution likely only audible to a trained ear. “I will bring you to the Harper Hall…if you wish, it’s your choice…but not tonight. There are a few people who will be quite surprised to see you are Singing again. I would like to talk to Masterharper Sebell first, too, about your rank.”

“I was wondering why you were running around cavalierly saying I’m a Master,” she chided him.

“Oh, there’s no doubt, you will be awarded all honors of such rank,” Robinton said, dismissively waving a hand. “You’re a Master of the Craft as much as Menolly is. The question is the Records and bureaucracy. We’ll figure it out.”

“What’s wrong with a rank of Singer?” she asked.

“Other than the fact that I abolished Singer as a rank when Menolly was accepted as a Journeywoman?” Robinton asked with a wry grin.

“There’s no Singers?” Merelan asked in shock.

“There are _Harpers_ with Singing as their specialty,” Robinton said. “Same as there ever was. The Hall is simply acknowledging that reality, now.”

“Robie,” she said.

He came over and put a hand on her shoulder. “I know. We’ll talk. But I’m keeping D’ram waiting. I will return tomorrow, probably afternoon or late afternoon. Sharra, you’ll take care of her for me?”

“Of course.” Although Sharra’s gaze on Merelan was speculative.

Putting an arm in the air to beckon Zair towards him, who hopped off of a table, Robinton looked apprehensive for a moment, as if he didn’t exactly want to leave either, then gave them another smile and left, presumably to find D’ram.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just another warning to save a copy of things since I'm probably going to replace the previous chapter 8 with an updated and revised one when I add the next chapter.


End file.
